


Leyline

by sensitive_pigeon



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Original, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, F/F, Magical Wild West, Sexual Themes, Slow Burn, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitive_pigeon/pseuds/sensitive_pigeon
Summary: Nicole Haught is the Bastard of the West, the last Gunslinger still standing, the final pillar of the Old West. She is fading, becoming dust, and her heart has long ago been buried six feet under. Beyond redemption, she seeks an honorable death, hunting monsters and mayhem across Westerly in hopes of her final moment.Until she finds Purgatory and Miss Waverly Cactus, who drags her into a quest that might just grant her what she wishes for the most.
Relationships: Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught, Xavier Dolls/Wynonna Earp/Doc Holliday
Comments: 55
Kudos: 174





	1. Short Change Hero

**Author's Note:**

> howdy y'all
> 
> it's me back on ao3 with a new thing that has taken me OVER
> 
> its COWBOYS BAYBEEEE if you know my twitter you saw this coming like months away but here it is: Leyline. Magical cowboy Nicole Haught. Braverly Earp. Mysterious antagonist. Jeremy Chetri Rights. The Ghost River Triangle OTP.
> 
> This story is marked explicit for a reason because there are dark themes in this story. CW for brief sexual assault (1 scene in chapt 2) and some graphic scenes throughout the story as we descend into a Fantasy Western World filled with Wild Gods, horrifying monsters, scantily clad demons, and hard whiskey. Gunsmoke and High Noon duels, train robberies and wild chases, and lots of kissing. Eventually. We'll get to that.
> 
> Credits and thanks:  
> Thegaysmurf for WONDERFUL, amazing beta work!  
> All my early readers for their feedback and help!  
> 
> 
> howdy pardner  
> [@SensitivePigeon](https://twitter.com/sensitivepigeon)

#  **Chapter One - Short Change Hero**

Sunlight blinded Nicole Haught as she rode on, swaying, her one good arm gripping the saddlehorn so she wouldn’t fall. Heat rolled off her in waves and sweat stuck her shirt to her skin, the runes on her duster trying, but failing, to normalize her temperature. Venom coursed through her veins and circled her beating heart, flooding her mind with distant memories.

_The sunlight changed, slanted. Nicole stood on a porch, hat between her hands, staring at her fiancée. Butterflies alight in her chest as her fingers swept over soft skin and a tearful cheek._

_“You’re a ray of sunshine, Nicole Haught.”_

_Beautiful things. A smile, a kiss, a flower._

Nicole’s hand tightened on the horn. Calamity huffed, exhausted, but Nicole trusted her to find the nearest town, to save them both. The locket around her neck felt as heavy as her bones. Behind, her familiar followed, dizzy from the connection to Nicole’s fading Will.

_The rattlesnake lay dead near the well, its head shot clean off. A rustle of dusty skirts and a presence beside her, hand on her upper arm, lips touching her cheek._

_“Ain’t you just a hero. You gonna take care of me, Nicole Haught?”_

_“If you let me.”_

Dust blew as the wind picked up, howling through the Sounding Desert and dragging up the whispers. Nicole groaned, trying to make noise to cover the sound, but they wriggled into her brain and began to stir. The sound rose with the breeze, murmuring madness beyond the sickness in her blood.

_Her mentor, standing at the edge of the rocks, eyes locked on the head of the canyon._

_“I’ll be back before sundown.”_

_Nicole rising to her feet, furious. “Can’t you take me with you? I’ve a gun, and I know how to shoot--_ ”

_“No.”_

Ragged coughing. Droplets of sweat drained from her bloodless face. A song, something half-remembered, hovered on her tongue. She breathed out the tune, clinging to it like a lifeline, trying to keep the whispers at bay.

“Sons and daughters,” Nicole sang hoarsely. _“_ Run from the railroad, run from the railroad.”

Calamity whinnied in pain.

“Rustlers and slaughters. Come by the byroad, come by the byroad.”

 _“Nicole!”_ called a voice from behind her.

Nicole didn’t turn. She squeezed her legs, but Calamity was flagging. Something in the distance rising, a blur of brown. But every gods-damned thing on this continent was brown. She had to hurry, now. Before it caught her dead.

 _“Why did you leave me?”_ the wind howled.

“Dust to dust and rust to rust.” Nicole swayed dangerously, leaning forward in the saddle, tempted to just give up and rest. “Gun--” another ratcheting cough, “--slinger’s gonna run you down.”

 _“You’re a real son of a bitch, Nicole Haught!”_ someone called from the past.

There. Buildings. The brown spot coalesced into a town. Too tired to be hopeful, grateful, any sort of feeling but the rush of oncoming black. Nicole’s bad arm twitched to a holster, pulling free a knife. One strike across her skin and adrenaline picked up, keeping the black at bay.

“Gunslinger’s gonna run you down,” Nicole repeated dully, consciousness slipping away. The rickety wood structures grew large, far too large, and her vision swam. Faces swirled around, twisting into wild grins and wicked scowls. No one approached her. 

Someone screamed.

 _“Sheriff!”_ another called.

Nicole felt a smile slide across her face, dizzy. Calamity had fallen back to an agonized walk, dragging along the dire lizard corpse behind. Someone tried to grab her reins and Calamity nearly took their arm off completely. Folk began to crowd as a figure came running.

Shiny badge. Nicole squinted. Calamity halted, blocked by the Sheriff.

Nicole reached up with her good arm and tipped her hat.

“Problem solved, Sheriff,” Nicole said with a distant smile.

Then she promptly fell from the saddle.

  
  


\----

Nicole woke screaming in the night, thrashing against the hands holding her down. She couldn’t see, couldn’t comprehend, who was above her, trying to get her to stop flailing around in her cot and prevent her from waking the others.

“I seen him! I seen him!” she cried.

“Kid!” a gruff voice said as the grip hardened. “Kid, stop! Kid!”

Nicole opened her eyes to her mentor gazing at her with mild concern and annoyance. She stopped flailing immediately and adopted a look of apology. 

A knock on the door. Nikolai the Riflemaster followed, peering inside the small dorm at the pair. “Again?” he asked, eyes lingering on the deflated Nicole.

“Seems so,” her mentor replied as he stood, moving away from Nicole.

Silent tears poured down Nicole’s face and she wiped them away, lest the two men see.

“I’ll go on n’ get some tea,” Nikolai said quietly before retreating and leaving the pair alone. 

Nicole remained silent as her mentor turned and brought a stool over to her cot.

“What you seen, kid?” he asked after a period of silence.

“I’m sorry, I--”

“What you seen?”

Nicole swallowed hard, remembering the shambling corpse coming toward her with grasping, decaying hands. “I seen him again. The dead man.”

“The man you done killt?”

Nicole nodded slowly, eyes lowering from what was no doubt disappointment gazing back at her. She had said she was ready, now she was havin’ them nightmares.

“Where’s your six-gun, kid?”

Nicole pointed at her pack hanging against the wall. Her mentor stood and strolled over, retrieving it before offering it handle-first to the young Nicole. Confusion draped over her face as she carefully took it from him.

“Sleep with it under the pillah, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.” Nicole tucked it neatly under her pillow.

“Good for an ambush, but I tell you somethin’.” He sat back on his stool. “I seen ‘em, too.”

Nicole looked up, dumbfounded. 

“I seen them dead men shamblin’ for me just the same. For their revenge, you know. You know what you does now?”

“What do I do?”

“Shoot ‘em again, kid. Shoot ‘em again and again, until they don’t get up no more.”

\---

Singing.

An old cattle song drifted through Nicole’s mind as she slowly raised above unconsciousness. Fingers of sleep dragged at her mind, willing her to go back under to the sweet release of the dark, but nightmares lingered at the edge. With a sigh, Nicole opened her eyes.

Thankfully, the room was lit only by a lantern. Night had fallen outside. Beside her, a woman sat, working cloth, singing soft and gentle. Nicole didn’t move, didn’t alert her to her awakening, and instead watched from the cot she had been left in. Her duster and vest had been removed, but her undershirt and pants had not been disturbed.

The warmth of the blanket over her threatened to put her to sleep, however, so Nicole sat up fully.

“Oh!” the woman startled with a yelp. “I didn’t realize…”

Nicole squinted. Brunette hair, short of stature, wiry muscles. Probably an even fight, considering -- Nicole took a breath, settling down her instincts and relaxing instead. The woman appeared harmless. She moved to grip the edge of the bed, but found no purchase on her left side.

Her arm had been removed.

Vivid images returned -- the dire lizard leaping over her barricade, ripping into her arm with venomous teeth, resisting the continued blows to its head as it tore open her flesh.

Nicole raised her eyebrows and lifted the stump that remained, prodding at the masterwork stitching. At least she had been unconscious.

“I had to take it off,” the woman said hesitantly. “I-it was rotten. Necrotic.”

“I understand,” Nicole said. Her throat ached and, as if she could read minds, the woman offered her a glass of water. Nicole drank gratefully before taking a long, pleased sigh. It had been a while since she’d been in a safe room with a nurse by her side. She took it in with slow, easy breaths. “Thank you.”

The woman stared pointedly at the wall.

“Tell me.” Nicole cleared her throat. “What town am I in?”

“Purgatory.”

“Huh.” Nicole scratched her chin with her remaining arm. “Am I really that far west?”

The woman nodded. She picked at her skirts with nervous fingers. Nicole realized she was shaking. Nicole pressed her lips together and understood. The runes. She’d seen the runes. 

“Ain’t no reason to be scared--”

The woman scowled. “You have a lot of nerve, coming here.”

Nicole recognized fury when she saw it. She tilted her head, about to speak, but--

“You should leave as soon as you can, _Gunslinger.”_

The words were harsh; bitter. The woman stood and left, the door slamming on the way out. Nicole hummed thoughtfully, not particularly concerned. At least she wasn’t in chains.

Her hand gripped the edge, and she carefully lifted herself from the cot. She hissed at the cold floorboards before shuffling over to a lump of cloth that appeared to be her clothes. Her shirt had been washed and stitched, but her runed duster lay untouched in its semi-destroyed state. One moment of rummaging later and Nicole lit a cigarette, calming down after a taste of the taback.

Once dressed, Nicole exited the room to find a calmly lit hall. She navigated her way down the stairs and into the foyer of what appeared to be a hotel, disturbing a clucking bunch of ladies who were taking their evening supper. Wide eyes stared back. Nicole tipped her hat and moved along quickly, brushing by the doorman and out into the street.

Clomping bootsteps. 

“Now, wait a minute,” a man said gruffly. Nicole regarded the Sheriff as he approached, noticing a pronounced limp and an unfortunate gut. His stature whispered of his familiarity with the guns aboard his person and Nicole had no doubt he had some sort of military experience under his belt. 

Nicole waited, lifting her remaining hand in surrender. He squinted at her, assessing her as she’d assessed him, and obviously didn’t like what he found. He spat to the side and chewed his next words.

“Your horse vanished,” he said at last.

“She tends to do that,” Nicole drawled back. 

“Now you listen. This here is a fine, peaceful town. We don’t take kindly to strangers armed to the teeth comin’ and draggin’ a dire lizard behind their steed. What in the name of Gods were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t. I was bit.”

He narrowed his eyes. Nicole waited to be arrested or executed. He did neither.

“Gunslinger, you take your leave now.”

“I will, Sheriff. Once I have my guns.”

The Sheriff looked like his teeth might crack under the pressure of his jaw before he spoke bladed, resentful words. 

“Follow me,” he instructed.

Nicole obediently followed, stepping softly as if she might disturb the town further. Those on porches and the wooden walkways stared at her with a mixture of disgust, hate, and open fear. They knew who she was. What she’d done. What her runes represented. She bore their feelings with a head held high, shoulders back, and a casual puff of her cigarette. 

The Sheriff’s office was in surprisingly good condition for being this far west. The same could be said of the whole town. Nicole had to give kudos for the hard work of the people who lived here, built all this despite the odds, even though they wanted her skinned and hanged. 

The Sheriff led the way inside and swept around behind his desk. Finally, a name perched on a wooden slat on top of the desk: Sheriff Nedley. He glared at her as if it offended him that she now knew part of his name. The legends still held weight. A full name would be death if given to a Gunslinger.

He picked up a set of keys and unlocked a box in a corner, pulling weapon after weapon free. A repeater, a solid built bolt action sniper rifle, and more revolvers than any one person could need. And finally…

He held it up to the light and it seemed to absorb it, reflect it, illuminate by itself. Consecrated and powerful, the hefty six-shooter he held had the power to kill Gods, and had once been used for that very reason.

Just one thing.

It was missing its partner.

The Sheriff continued to hold onto the gun, long after the polite length of time. Nicole cleared her throat, having collected the other weapons and holstered them all.

“Is this…” His voice drifted off.

“Yes."

The Sheriff threw it on the desk as if it had burned him. Maybe it had. Nicole narrowed her eyes, but he was human, plain and simple. Once Nicole holstered her consecrated revolver on her front left side where it could be seen, he settled his hands on the desk and peered at her, trying to discern her motivations. Nicole gave him a blank look.

“Are the legends true?” the Sheriff asked, just like the others.

“Some of them.”

“Did you really kill those women?”

Nicole never saw fit to lie, and her runes prevented it anyhow. “Yes.”

His look turned sour, hateful. “Get out. Leave.”

Nicole tipped her hat. “Will do.”

Nicole hastily made her exit from the office and paused on the porch, looking around at the streets. She squinted and wondered if the townspeople recognized the holy rune their buildings were placed in. Probably not. Runes were witchcraft, hateful magic in the eyes of the general populace. Nicole shrugged. Best to leave them ignorant. 

Dust kicked up under her leather boots as she strode toward the edge of town. It might take a day for her horse to reappear from the desert, but she could still leave and set up camp outside the city limits.

Nicole was vaguely aware of a powerful Will watching her, but ignored it. None of this was her business, especially not a magical person among the mundanes of Purgatory. Let them live in peace, ignorance, and let them never discover their potential. This she prayed as she walked out of Purgatory and into the Sounding Desert. There, she wouldn’t be followed or bothered. All townsmen went the other direction, across the safer plains, without the risk of harrowing madness.

\---

The wind was down, as was the sun, but Nicole packed a few of her taback papers as sound blockers, lest the desert start whispering while she slept. The last thing she needed was even more nightmares. Irritated by circumstance, she rolled a cigarette with one hand and began to smoke. Missing the other arm bothered her more than she could say. She’d have to get a replacement. It looked like she had to be among the populace again, in a larger town: Cliffside. 

Nicole almost spat at the thought of the distant town, built into a split canyon for the purpose of mining the Leylines that had run dry ages past. It had ruined the reputation of magic users by collecting the dust and dirt of humanity together after the money had run low. Now, when people thought of the old tales, they had them soured by the Black Wills that had infected the continent.

A stick broke, and the sound of soft hoofbeats padding on the desert floor. Nicole didn’t look up.

“Good evening,” Nicole murmured after the sound came closer, pausing her smoking. “You can come to the fire, if you like.”

Expecting a spirit or a traveler, Nicole almost startled instead at the vision of the nurse who had treated her dismounting from a lowborn steed. She turned with such determination in her eyes that Nicole expected her to pull a gun and fire.

She didn’t. 

Damn.

Nicole tapped her cigarette thoughtfully, waiting patiently. The woman gathered her words in her mind, an inner fire raging. This was the powerful Will Nicole had sensed before. By the Gods, it was strong, and the woman was on the verge of unintentionally raising it. A single lifted eyebrow was all Nicole offered in response.

“They tell me you’re the bastard of the West,” the woman said. “That you murdered three women in cold blood and killed a God. You’re a bad omen and a worse person who uses witchcraft to ravage each town you pass. You’re the last of the wicked Gunslingers.”

Nicole gave a slight nod, indicating that the woman should continue.

The woman tensed one final moment before confusion settled on her shoulders. “But you killed the dire creature that took some of our men without asking for a moment’s thanks.”

Nicole paused, unsure of how to react to that truth. Something about this was different. Fate hovered in the air, burning through her rune, and Nicole absolutely hated that. If the woman would get back on her horse and leave, that would be just fine.

“The old stories…”

 _Fuck. Shit._ If this woman needed help, then Nicole---

“I need your help.”

Well. There it was.

Nicole tried not to let her frustration show on her face, but the woman had a Will that could sniff out emotions a mile away. At least she didn’t know--

“You took an oath,” the woman countered and a feeling of dread settled in Nicole’s stomach. “I know it. I know of the old stories, of the times before. You took an oath, and I call that oath. I need your help, Gunslinger. I call on you for open aid in recovery of my sister. In the words of the Gods themselves: _Help me_.”

Nicole rose from the log she rested on, almost feeling something akin to rage. Her runes burned and her mind blurred, became fuzzy, before sharpening in a way it hadn’t in a century. She huffed, panting as the runes settled in her mind, connected, and magic snapped Fate itself into place.

Nicole threw her cigarette to the dirt. If she could feel, she’d feel a kind of hatred for this woman, but she had saved her life and Nicole owed her, damn it all. She owed her and she’d taken that damn oath and now it was all ruined, all done, and now Nicole had to do whatever this woman wanted until the oath was complete.

A single word cracked from between tight teeth and an iron jaw. “Fine.” Nicole took in a breath and let out a weary sigh. No one could fight Fate magic, especially not Gunslingers. “What’s your name, girl?”

Wrong wording. Blazing, the woman strode up to her and looked about to slap her. “I’m not a girl. I’m a woman, and you will treat me with due respect or not speak at all. I am Waverly, Waverly---” She paused. “Waverly…” She looked around, face red. “Waverly Cactus. Oh, it doesn’t matter. You _won’t_ have my full name, Gunslinger.”

Smart.

Nicole caught herself leaning back a little from that blaze and corrected herself, affecting a casual stance. She shrugged, almost rolling another cigarette out of habit before remembering she was missing a whole damned arm. Instead, she sat upon her log, crossed her legs before her, and waved with her one good hand to a nearby stump.

Waverly gathered her skirts and sat so stiffly Nicole thought she might snap.

“Relax.” This time, Nicole pulled a small bundle from her pack, managed it open with one hand, and chewed a bit of the herb tucked inside. Her mind sharpened further, exhaustion falling back. 

“What’s that?” Waverly asked, only relaxing an inch.

Nicole felt like ignoring the question, but this new deal meant she owed Waverly some sort of answer. Sarcasm fell to her tongue but died against the wall of truth. “Little bit of hellebore. Keeps us sharp. And I’m out of taback.”

Waverly stared. “I thought Gunslingers didn’t imbibe in smoking or drinking--”

Nicole barked a laugh and shook her head, ignoring the childish comment. 

Face red again, Waverly turned her eyes to the fire. Silence passed.

“Tell me about your sister,” Nicole pressed, sensing that the energy that had drawn this woman to her had faded to embers. Now she looked almost shy, wary, and a hint of regret on her mind.

That stoked something. Waverly met her gaze evenly. “My sister, Wynonna, is missing.”

“Run off?”

 _“Taken,”_ Waverly corrected harshly. “I know it. She’s been taken, and so have the rest.”

Nicole paused at that, scratching through her mind for scraps of rumors and news. She hadn’t been among people often enough, but word of missing persons was usual fare for the West.

“People have gone missing and so has my sister,” Waverly said.

“I’ll need to see for myself,” Nicole said. “Where was she taken from?”

Waverly finally relaxed as Nicole showed no sign of bucking the oath. “Our ranch, during the night.”

“I’ll need to see it.”

Waverly nodded before standing to see to her horse. She settled the reins around a scrap of post nearby and began to...unpack.

Waverly had apparently come prepared. She put cotton in her ears and pulled free a bed roll, settling it beside the fire an appropriate distance. Nicole forced herself to reassess Waverly in her mind; clearly this woman was a careful planner. A curious question raised in Nicole’s thoughts: Had Waverly thought of this moment in advance and for how long?

A few things clicked together in puzzle-like orientation. The timeline matched. The news of the dire lizard reaching her had not been coincidence. No coincidence existed in a Gunslinger’s life. Fate ruled over all, and Waverly was but a pawn, but a very, very clever one. It had to have been a curious mixture of faith and foresight, and a level of pure goodwill and desperation that drew Nicole forward to look at Waverly properly in the light. 

She must really believe in fairy tales.

But she had what she wanted, and Nicole respected that. She had to. People were saved and Waverly had her Gunslinger. Her sister would be found within the week and she had pulled a heart from the Bastard of the West. Pure magic.

Waverly said nothing, only settled to sleep. 

“I’ll take watch,” Nicole said. Waverly made no impression that she’d heard. Nicole felt a smile and killed it instantly, instead turning her gaze to the stars. 

It would be a long night.

\---

Nicole’s lungs began to burn as river water rushed above her head. She fought down panic, and instead opened her eyes, watching the dodgerfish leap through existence and come to nibble on her nose. Terror began to pound in her veins, and Nicole could hear her heartbeat in her ears as the seconds poured on and on. Soon the pain became agony, and every instinct told her to breathe, breathe, _breathe._

The moment it became unbearable, her mentor hauled her up out of the river. 

_“Nicole Rayleigh Haught, what is our oath?”_ he commanded.

“Protect the innocent!” Nicole shouted. “Destroy the wicked! Fight without limits! Die with honor!”

“Do you swear unto this oath?”

“I swear!”

“Do you swear to protect the innocent, be it with your gun or your life?”

“I swear!”

“Do you swear to destroy the wicked, be it friend or foe?”

“I swear!”

“Do you swear to fight without limits, with honor on your side?”

“I swear!”

“Do you swear to die with honor, loyalty, and love in your heart?”

“I swear!”

“Rise, Gunslinger!”

Nicole stood on wobbling legs. Her mentor lifted a hand, and Nicole flinched, expecting a slap, but he slammed his hand on her back, driving water from her lungs with each strike. 

“You will obey this oath, Gunslinger. You will heed the call of the Gods and aid those in need, or I will put you down myself. Do you swear it?”

“I swear it!” Nicole managed between coughs. “I swear it on my gun, on my soul, on my life!”

But this was not a just memory. This was a dream, a nightmare, a creation of the whispering desert. His face sloughed off, skin fading until his bare skull shone in the moonlight, empty sockets staring her down, part of it all missing from the gunshot that had killed him instantly. 

_“Obey, Nicole Rayleigh Haught. Obey.”_

He pulled free both of his consecrated pistols, pulled back the hammers, and aimed at his own head, and two shots echoed--

  
  


\---

Nicole shot awake from her position on the log and swung free her revolver, sweeping the bright morning horizon in seconds, aiming for the enemy, only to find Waverly in the distance cursing and waving a six-shooter.

“I missed!” Waverly shouted. “I missed! _How did I miss it!”_

Nicole holstered her gun and hurried over, spotting an escaping rabbit looking no worse for the wear. She sighed. Waverly didn’t know how to hunt and she had grown up in the West. Who had raised her? 

Nicole caught the waving arm lest the gun go off again. Waverly huffed, holstering it awkwardly and slapping away Nicole’s grasp. 

“I know how to shoot, Gunslinger,” Waverly insisted.

“Sure.” Nicole whistled and her horse appeared from the dust and wind, trotting over as if yesterday had been nothing and her pride remained undamaged. Waverly stared in awe at the open display of real magic, before turning at a rustling brush and trying to get her gun free.

Again Nicole restrained her as a red bobcat peered from the underbrush, watching the pair. Watching Nicole. Its eyes hinted at intense intelligence and Waverly held in her breath.

“Familiar,” Waverly whispered. “Your familiar.”

“Yes.” Nicole gave a stiff nod. “Something’s not right here. We need to move, and quickly. Lead me to the ranch.”

Thankfully, Waverly took the honest warning and grabbed her things, throwing them on the back of her horse and mounting with speed. Nicole pulled herself astride her horse with one arm, trying not to let her disability show, and gestured for Waverly to lead.

Used to the speed of the wild air, Nicole suffered the slow canter of a mundane horse leading. Calamity, a storm-born, could outpace anything with the ease of the wind through open fields. Her familiar, also named Calamity, followed along easily, out of sight, only in Nicole’s senses. By the tension in Waverly’s shoulders, by hers as well. 

Nicole pondered her potential. Again, the question of whether or not to alert Waverly to her own Will drifted through her mind. She decided against it - it wasn’t her business. Her business was to finish the oath as quickly as possible and leave. 

The nightmare began as the tiny breeze blew open into a full wind that tasted of a storm. Here, in the Sounding Desert, if caught in a windstorm - they would suffer and die of madness. 

Nicole ripped free her hellebore pouch and took a massive chunk, shoving it in her mouth and then the bag back into her pack.

“Waverly!” she shouted over the mass of herb. “Waverly, listen to me carefully.”

“Huh?” Waverly started to turn and look behind her.

 _“Don’t turn around!”_ Nicole shouted. The whispers had yet to begin, but there was no telling what was behind them. “Throw me your reins.”

“Why? I won’t--”

“Throw me your reins if you don’t want to leave your horse to die, _now!”_

Waverly, spooked, threw over her reins to Nicole, who took the lead on Calamity and pulled Waverly’s poor mundane into a higher speed. 

The whispers started.

“Gunslinger, what’s going on? Why are you...”

“Listen to me carefully-- The wind is starting.”

“I have cotton, I know--”

“It won’t be enough. It’s a storm. Get your cotton and cover your ears, okay?” Nicole couldn’t look back, couldn’t soothe the rolling fear she could feel in terrified waves from Waverly. “ _Do not look behind you for any reason at all_.”

“The homestead, it’s on the left trail,” Waverly explained quickly. “You turn at the sign into the fencing, and we’re there and out of the desert.” Waverly swallowed harshly. “What about you, what about the whispers?”

“I’m a Gunslinger,” Nicole said. She couldn’t lie, but she could avoid the truth. She let the implication of immunity hang, and hopefully comfort Waverly. The truth could wait. 

The truth was that no one but the Gods were immune to the Sounding Desert. It was the fastest way to Cliffside, the fastest cattle trail to the nearest railroad, and lucky cowboys took it often because the wind, the whispers, were so rare. Purgatory lived beside it, and the bar must have been packed with cattlemen and cowboys every time there was so much as a breeze outside.

No one understood the runes that were carved into the mesas that sang when the wind picked up. No one understood the whispers, the purpose of the madness, the meaning behind it all - it had been lost to the ages, lost in the histories beyond that of even the Gunslingers who had lived for hundreds of years. 

All that was known was that sometimes The Ever-Turning Storm that dominated the mid-south of the continent grew larger, and the echoes of the storm flew outward into the surrounding lands, including the Sounding Desert. 

The mass of hellebore hit her mind as Calamity picked up speed. Waverly’s horse barely held on, the reins taut, but Nicole had no time for sympathy. When it was over, they would care for Waverly’s mount, yet now they had to fight for survival.

The storm hit.

The whispers rose.

Nicole leaned forward on her horse, having shoved the rolling paper in her ears, but it did nothing. She tied the reins to her saddlehorn and squished what remained of her arm to her ear, using her free hand to cover the other, but it was useless. 

Calamity would follow Nicole’s familiar to safety, but safety was too far away. 

_“Nicole Rayleigh Haught! What a wonderful surprise!”_ a voice greeted from beside her. A shadowy black mass at the edge of her vision, red lines and wide eyes, a form that coalesced by the power of Will and magic itself, and dominated it in turn.

“Coyote.” Nicole grit her teeth, honest words falling from her despite her apprehension. “Blessings and respect to the amazing and wonderful trickster God.”

Her familiar had vanished. Nicole fought panic.

_“Do you like my wind?”_

Nicole fought to keep her breath steady, even as it picked up speed. Even Gunslingers feared the Gods’ wills, and obeyed their whims. Without the use of her hands, she could not pull free her gun -- and even so, to put down a God like Coyote would be the ultimate sin. Honored and respected despite his capriciousness, the only cause for malice was, well, Nicole had gone and killed a God. 

(For very good reasons that hardly made any difference in the grand scheme of things. Plus, they regenerate! It’s not as if Nicole had done any _real_ damage. Oh, she had. But could you blame her?

Well, yes.)

Coyote might not have even _liked_ the God, but it was the _principle_ of the thing that mattered. 

“I do, honored one.” Nicole nodded, swallowing harshly. The normally benign, but tricky God showed sharp teeth as large as Nicole was tall. “I would bow to you, were it not so loud.”

 _“Don’t think you can get out of this one!”_ Coyote began to laugh. _“This is wonderful, wonderful timing! This will be a great show, a great show indeed! Please enjoy, Nicole Rayleigh Haught, for I thought of it_ just for you!”

“Blessings to you and goodwill,” Nicole said, but Coyote had vanished, leaving the wind and madness behind.

“Nicole!” Waverly called. “Nicole, _please stop!”_

Nicole bit her tongue, unable to imagine what Waverly was witnessing. In a way, Coyote’s appearance was a turn for the better. The madness might focus on Nicole, and leave Waverly only on the verge of a nightmare. It didn’t work that way, but let it be said that Gunslingers did have hope remaining in their hearts, despite everything.

Nicole’s hellebore would fade, and she would have to risk everything to take more to lead them to safety. 

“Nicole!” Waverly wailed in agony. “Nicole, _by the Gods!_ Have _mercy!_ ”

In the distance, a sign. A turn. A trail. 

Hoofbeats and heartbeats. 

_You were never meant for this life,_ the whispers began. _You were never good enough. You lost everything and deserved it._

Nicole couldn’t get enough air. She sucked in through her lungs, only to feel the echo of water and burn of smoke combined into pure pain. Just a bit longer. Just a bit more. 

_She knew your wicked heart. She knew you could never settle for her beauty, her grace, her goodness, because…_

Waverly continued to howl.

“Nicole! No! Not the house! _Not them!”_

_It always felt so good to kill, didn’t it? So good to take a life. You always felt so satisfied by this life, in the way the others didn’t. You weren’t meant to die easy like the rest - you were meant to live and suffer._

Nicole began to flag, slouching in her saddle. She gasped for breath, building up her Will, her resolve, everything inside of her. She had to take more hellebore or they wouldn’t make it, but by uncovering her ears, she risked it all in an instant.

_The chainman is coming for you next, Nicole Rayleigh Haught._

_“_ You killed those women! _You killed them!”_

Nicole let go of her ears just in time to hear the click of a hammer pulling back. She could not see behind her, did not dare use her Sight to discern it, but she knew without a doubt that Waverly was about to shoot her dead.

Even an untrained city boy could kill Nicole at this distance, with six bullets in a chamber, and Waverly had gotten _very_ close to that rabbit.

Nicole did the only thing she could.

She ducked.

Three bullets whizzed over her head, another struck her leg and the fifth ripped through her shoulder, and the final bullet flew right across the side of her throat. The bullets did nothing to Calamity, but she felt them pass through and screamed. 

_NICOLE RAYLEIGH HAUGHT, YOU ARE DAMNED TO ENTER HELL. DEMONS COME FOR YOU. THE RECKONING AND CURSE OF WESTERLY WAS ALWAYS DUE TO YOUR HAND AND GUN. YOU ARE BORN OF SINNERS, MADE BY SINNERS, AND WILL BURN FOR ETERNITY AS THE SINNER YOU ARE IN A GODLESS LAND._

Blood. So much of it. Now she was bleeding from almost half a dozen holes including her throat. The shouting of the desert pounded in her mind, visions of the past spinning out of control. Her gaze on the sign began to waver and twist, and she saw her long ago wife, her desperate wants, her mentor, her mentor, her mentor and his guns and fist and they were raised and ready and Nicole was young, so young, when she was taken and turned into a weapon and thrown aside to live as all else died out, as the west itself died, as everything turned to ash in her hands and the chain man’s butchering hooks swung through the air and he laughed and laughed and laughed.

Will. Powerful Will. That was all Nicole could feel and know, her vision wavering, her face dangerously close to the leather of her saddle and she was sliding, falling, before--

A strong arm pulled her upright. Images of Waverly screaming at her, something breaking through the fog, but the sound of the desert covered all. Waverly took back her reins and stole Calamity and she allowed it, taking the lead over the storm-born who suffered as her rider did. 

Somehow, somehow, Waverly had taken the lead. Her hands were pressed firmly to her ears, her jaw set, and all Nicole could feel was the iron Will that seemed so familiar, as if it were timeless, as if she had known it all her life, or another. She grabbed hold of it with her own Will, mindless to the implications of such an action, only desperate for some semblance of sanity.

Color and sound.

A brilliant morning, a softness to everything, a table set with eggs and bacon and two people, comforting, parents but not related, but that was gone and all that remained, all that was left, was herself and her sister, and two men. The men’s faces were blurry, Nicole couldn’t see them, but she could feel some kind of familial bond through the four of them. A strength to it that startled Nicole and made her envious at once, but the three were missing and Waverly was all alone.

Nicole felt something in her heart crack, shift, and change.

She felt Calamity turn beneath her and the sound of the desert retreat from the background of her mind. She let go of the iron Will that held her and the saddle horn. 

For the second time, she fell from the saddle and everything went black.

\---

Nicole dreamed of nothing but felt color and sound. They had told her that there was no dreaming when you died, only the Path and the final God you honored most would take you down the crossroad along with those who had decided to wait for you, but there was no one waiting for Nicole.

The crossroad came into her mind, and the figures who drew through the tall grass came closer.

“Hello?” Nicole called.

Surely, someone had waited. Someone had stayed behind for her, to guide her. 

But there was nothing and no one. The color blue, the rushing of the distant river, the blackness of the figures in the grass. No one stood for Nicole’s soul. No one would protect her from damnation.

Nicole fell to her knees. Everyone who had died, everyone who had been close and had been loved as much as she could, and nothing had come of any of it. She had slain too many, caused too much chaos, and now her final moments would burn to ash and she would be nothing but dust.

“Shae!” Nicole called desperately. “Wyatt! Wyatt! _Honored Master of the Gun!”_

No response.

“Nikolai! Master of the Rifle!”

Nothing. The figures, stretched beyond length but still humanoid, emerged from the grass onto her side of the path.

“Tiberius!” Nicole risked. Even that asshole had been connected to her. “Master of the Knife!”

Nothing. No one remained.

The call of a Will and Nicole lifted her eyes from the black soil. Vulture roosted before her on the sign of the crossroad.

“You?” Nicole asked. “ _You_ will lead me?”

Vulture said nothing, only shook their many heads, their voice flat and without emotion. No mortal quarrel was strong enough to last here. “I lead you nowhere, Nicole Rayleigh Haught. Your name is no longer your own.”

“Who?” Nicole croaked, tears streaming down her ethereal face. “Who leads me? Who guides me now, as I have nothing left and my name is taken?”

“No one.”

“This isn’t fair!” Nicole screamed, beyond reason. The figures came closer, reaching for her skin, burning it with their whispering touches. “I had no chance at redemption! I had no chance to save myself!”

“Nothing is fair. You have failed your oath, and died lawlessly in the desert, failing the innocent.”

“I tried to save her!”

“Yet you failed.”

“Lies from a God,” said a soft, gentle voice from behind Nicole. The color of gold, the feeling of white. “How shameful.”

“You dare interfere here?” Vulture spread their wings. “You will not. Her soul is finished.”

Nicole turned and saw a woman. Old, raw lines on her face, a storm-forged expression and a firm stance. Somehow, she existed in color. Was this her guide? Was this stranger to lead her past the crossroads? The burning touches faded, the figures hid back behind Vulture.

“Nicole has died with honor in an attempt to save the innocent. She deserves to be guided,” the woman intoned.

“I am not beyond mercy and benevolence for the one who has slain me,” Vulture said. “But no one stands here to speak for her. Even you cannot. You do not possess her name.”

“But I know who does.” The woman outstretched her hand to Nicole. 

Nicole lifted her own, even as it faded to dust, and found a grasp. It held firm. A pulling, a twisting, and Nicole screamed as pain flooded her mind and the world went white.

_“Redeem yourself, Nicole Rayleigh Haught, and save my daughters from themselves.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy my writing. If you want to support me, you can find ways on my Twitter @SensitivePigeon. 
> 
> Chapter 2 is now up on [Patreon!](https://www.patreon.com/sensitivepigeon) Chapters are released there first for Patrons to get a good gander, then a few days later on Ao3. Chapter Two will release soon! Enter the hanging city of Cliffside and its eccentric workshop overseer, a familiar face and a good friend to our hardened Nicole Haught, as our quest continues! 
> 
> Will they kiss yet?!!!?!  
> @SensitivePigeon


	2. The World Ender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicole Haught leads Waverly Cactus into the hanging city of Cliffside, where they meet its eccentric workshop overseer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all there's two uncomfy scenes in this chapter so 
> 
> cw for brief sexual assault and disturbing violence
> 
> read safe!! 
> 
> Much thanks again to my beta, Thegaysmurf, for an amazing job!
> 
> much love to you, too  
> @SensitivePigeon

#  **Chapter Two - The World Ender**

In the sight of the pale sky, the world was awash with grey. Gentle sobbing drifted from somewhere in the distance. Two riders, clad in black, carried sacks aboard their horses that resembled the bodies of men.

The main street lay empty. A thick layer of cloying dust overlaid everything. The signs were rusted, the plants withered in their boxes, the doors of the tavern open and swinging in the hollow wind. The hotel’s windows were smashed out, blown by some hurricane force that had destroyed most everything and left.

In the streets were the remains of the people of Highton.

The riders urged their steeds forward in matching stride. Neither lifted their hoods to spy upon the wretched image of what was left of humanity. Torn corpses littered the porches, the alleys, the shadowed corners of the buildings. More could be found within, certainly, but as such it was not the concern of the unwelcome visitors.

One of the sacks moaned.

The pair turned sharply, riding down a second street past a rotted dentist’s office and the town’s stable. The dark hid what caused a repulsive stench that clouded the air.

At the end of the street were thirty men cut from the same cloth as the dark riders. One stood in front, face impassive and unreadable, listening to an ongoing discussion. His face was etched by the wind, sharp, older than his fellows by years and a white tinge in his hair. He was the only one without a blindfold. Chains criss-crossed his body, ending in two devastating hooks that he had sheathed at his belt.

“There’s been a change,” one of the posse said grimly. “I felt it. Did you?”   


Murmurs of agreement rose.

“The homestead,” the chain man’s second spoke. “We can still turn around, take--”

The chain man’s expression changed, and he fell silent immediately, turning to spy the riders instead. They stopped before him, bowing their heads simultaneously.

Finally, the chain man spoke.

“Is it her?” he asked, voice like an old violin. 

“Yes,” came the response from behind the hood. “It’s her.”

“Give me the other one.”

Quite unceremoniously, one of the riders turned and hauled his sack from the horse, letting it fall to the dust below. It writhed, moaning. The older man wrinkled his nose and bent at the knee, grasping the cloth and pulling it free. A gasping face met the air and heaved, coughing, ruggedly handsome but ultimately nondescript. The deep pulse of Will simmered beneath his skin.

“Just something we picked on the way,” said one.

The rider’s horse snorted, taking a step back from the gathered men, eyes rolling. The other remained quiet, for it had died earlier that day. 

“Send her down,” the older man instructed. “Hold her, please.”

The remaining sack hit the dirt and cursed up a storm, struggling like a caught beast, kicking out at nothing. Men grabbed her roughly and hauled her to her feet. She struck out and nailed one between the legs, causing him to fall back, yowling, but overwhelming hands and arms pulled until she stilled. The hood fell away and Wynonna Earp narrowed her eyes in the light, blinking away afterimages until she focused.

“Hello, Wynonna,” the chain man murmured.

“Fuck you,” she spat back. “Fuck yourself in the ass, you dirty motherfu--”

The slap resounded over the plain.

“You fu--”

Again.

“I’ll gut you--”

Again.

Silence. A deadly glare, heavy panting, the indent on her cheek. 

He gripped her face, turning it aside until he saw the whites of her eyes. 

“Good girl,” he said softly, feeling the gooseflesh beneath his fingers. He let go and strode over to the other prisoner, gripping him in one hand and righting him as if he weighed nothing. He kicked the back of the man’s knees until he knelt in the dirt, sobbing.

The older man hushed him gently. “Don’t cry,” he said. “You’re among friends now. Do you see this?” He gestured to his posse.

“Please,” the man begged, head hung low. “Don’t kill me.”

“Hush.” He leaned forward, ghosting the back of his hand over the prisoner’s tear-stained cheek. “I’m going to take care of you.” He reached around and cut the ropes on his wrists free. The prisoner stilled, looking up slightly, eyes hopeful.

“Watch.” The chain man brought his knife close and pricked his finger. One sanguine drop fell from his flesh and struck the prisoner on the forehead. It settled there, shining, before slowly, slowly, rolling downward. It slipped along the furrowed grooves before meeting the clear bridge of the nose. It hung on the tip, hesitating, before dropping directly into the man’s astonished mouth.

The prisoner shook, waiting. 

Nothing happened, and continued to happen.

“Do you see?” the chain man asked. “My blood, it tastes the same. I am human, just like you.” He leaned closer, whispering, “Do you know who I am?”

The man stuttered continuously, not formulating any kind of sense. 

“Do you love me?”   


“Y-yes,” he shuddered out. “I do, I do.”

“Do you trust me?”   


“I-I do.” He nodded vigorously, almost falling over. 

The chain man gripped the prisoner’s hair, yanking his eyes upward, before driving his knife directly through his eye.

The man began to scream.

“Shh, shh,” the man urged. “Shh, it’s okay.”   


He continued on the other eye. 

The man’s screams became hoarse barks, echoes from his failing lungs, blood pouring from his sockets as the older man pulled back, leaving him there, shivering and crying out wordlessly, falling to the dirt and writhing in agonizing pain.

The posse began to chant in the Elder Tongue, something old as the wind, something forbidden by the sane and learned only by those who had given up their shadows. It sang over the remains of Highton and chilled the air, darkening the sun, and Wynonna struggled to cover her ears, to close her eyes, to turn away, to not look, to not  _ see _ or _ witness  _ or  _ behold _ what was coming, what had been there and left ruin, what would come again and bring paradise to the Blackened and drive down the Gods to the slaughter of man.

The older man lifted his knife in ecstasy. He let the drops of the innocent strike his tongue and began to laugh, higher than the chant, over the sobs and barks of the prisoner in the dirt, over Wynonna’s desperate shouting, over the dead which remained in Highton.

His chains were unleashed. He was free.

And the corpses began to stir.

  
  


==

  
  


Someone had flung dirt on her face. Nicole sat up, spitting, furious, cursing, flailing with her remaining arm, only to find herself six feet deep in the dust. Memories of death and the words of Vulture faded. Some impressions remained of a final command, but that was all.

“Oh, my Gods!” A familiar voice. Waverly. “You’re alive! You’re alive! Oh, my--”   


“Calm down!” Nicole called hoarsely, only to find her voice weak and whispery. Her throat ached, her whole body ached, she still felt somehow distant, as if her mind had yet to catch up to being alive again. “Don’t draw too much attention of the Gods. It’s bad luck.” She rubbed at her throat and found fine bandaging. 

Nicole turned her gaze upward to meet watery eyes. Waverly quickly wiped at them, as if she didn’t want Nicole to see she had wept. Nicole let out a weary sigh, stood, and pulled herself free of the grave with her one good arm, ignoring Waverly’s offer of help.

Once she finally found her feet in the sun and grass, Nicole peered around at the too-bright world of the living. Her eyes finally landed on Waverly, who had a look of awe on her face that made Nicole uncomfortable.

“For the record,” Nicole managed through the pain and restriction on her throat, “you bury Gunslingers face down.”

“Right,” Waverly said distantly, her eyes locked on Nicole’s. They stood there for a heartbeat, something on the verge of happening, Nicole’s Fate rune itching faintly, before Nicole broke it off by stepping around Waverly to inspect the homestead that stood in the midst of a flowing field. Enough. Fate had done enough to ruin her life. 

“You know!” Waverly said, gathering her skirts and stomping after her. “A _ thank you  _ would be nice, Gunslinger!” 

Nicole scratched at her throat, squinting at the homestead. Familiar. Again, that sense of some distant memory whispered in her mind. She could spy the broken window, a trail of blood, and a sense of Black Will emanating from somewhere inside.

Taking them both by surprise, Nicole turned on her heel and met Waverly head on.

“Thank you,” she said. 

Waverly’s mouth hung open like a fish. She closed it and nodded, face red again, and stepped around Nicole to lead them both into the house. Nicole followed. 

“Try not to talk too much,” Waverly muttered as they passed through the doorway into the empty foyer.

Whether it was medical advice or just because Waverly didn’t like her, Nicole couldn’t tell. 

The darkened almost-mansion felt oppressive, claustrophobic, yet it was filled with gold color and bright paint. Nicole inspected the finery that lined the walls and decor. Waverly had grown up in a fine way, and possibly by some kind of cattlebaron father, which explained a whole damn lot. Nicole pressed a hand to the wall, seeking through her runes and Will, feeling the underpinnings of runework in the frames of the house itself, warding protection. But something powerful had broken it.

Damn. This wasn’t an average kidnapping. The taste of Black Will in her mouth confirmed it.

“Her room is upstairs,” Waverly said, voice low as if someone might hear.

Nicole nodded and slipped past her, taking the stairs to the second floor. Waverly took the lead and they moved through hallways lined with wooden stands and precious stillgardens adorning each. Paintings of distant lands and the eastern continent, Attica, filled the space between. 

The feeling of dark omens grew deeper. Nicole half expected her familiar to show up, but there was no need to warn her of danger. It screamed from the final door as Waverly pushed it open with trembling hands.

Inside, blood covered the walls and chaos had taken over a naturally-chaotic rooming situation. Nicole felt the history of the room tell her the inhabitant had an interesting choice of decor with clothes strewn about, perhaps annoying whatever housecleaner that had been hired long ago and left recently. The sense of wild lack of inhibitions and whiskey almost overcame the stench of Black Will.

Nicole began a deeper inspection, walking back and forth across the room, touching nothing. Waverly waited patiently, watching her with keen eyes.

Nicole felt at every edge of the history, seeing where it had been cut open, slashed, butchered into silence. The gaping lack of knowledge frustrated her. She could see signs of struggle, impressions of violent feedback and blood loss that belonged to not only the victim, but also the attacker, but little else except…

Her foot creaked over a panel in the floor. She knelt instantly and pulled it free, unveiling a dusty tome of dark origin. Nicole did not touch it, only stared through it. Bought at some underhanded market outside of Purgatory, brought here by a dealer, and given to the sister -- no,  _ sisters.  _ Nicole saw  _ two _ familial prints on the book, but Waverly had never touched it, she was sure.

Not two.  _ Three _ .  _ Three _ sisters,  _ three _ Wills, two who had undergone some sort of transformation, one left behind, unharmed. Why?

“Where were you when she was taken?” Nicole asked.

“In my room, asleep.”

Left alone. Why?  _ Why?  _ Must it be connected to some kind of lack of interest in the Dark? Nicole saw no kind of taint inside Waverly’s Will, and she had been connected to it, if only briefly. She remembered that much, if little else.

“What happened to the third?” Nicole finally looked at Waverly, who quickly hid her open apprehension by complete surprise.   


“What?”   


“The eldest.”

“How do you… She died. Years ago.” Waverly did not look mournful. “I don’t…”   


“It was either a sister or a mother, and I ruled out mother.” Nicole wasn’t exactly sure why. She stood and began her inspection again with her new knowledge, but there wasn’t much else to be seen except a small marking on the bedpost. A slash. Some evidence of the weapon, good. Nicole finally reached out and touched something, the remains of the broken wood and images flashed in her mind.

Laughter. Chains. Slaughter.

“The chain man,” Nicole whispered.

“What?"   


“Just a story I remember,” Nicole said quickly, shaking her head. There was no way of his involvement, and no need to put images in Waverly’s head. “Something related to the book on the floor. You know it, don’t you?”   


“The book or the… Yes.”

“You didn’t tell me your sister was involved in darkness.” Nicole gestured to the tome.

“I didn’t want you to back out.”

“I  _ can’t, _ ” Nicole said, reminding them both. A spike of resentment. “You could tell me your sister is demonic and I would still be forced to save her.”   


“I am _ not _ forcing you! And my sister is not demonic! Just…misled.”

Nicole said nothing, letting the weak excuse stand on its own and wither. Waverly hugged herself and looked away.

“Do you know enough to find her?” Waverly asked.   


Nicole saw the edge of tears in Waverly’s eyes. Surprising herself, the urge to lie and comfort came to the forefront.

“Enough to try,” Nicole said. “And I can purge her of the Black, if she allows.”

“She will.”

Nicole nodded at that comforting lie and glanced at the broken window. She knew what had happened here, but saying so would not help things. She kept her silence, as Waverly had commanded her to, and gave the room one last evaluation. 

“What now?”   


Nicole turned her attention to Waverly, her magic still in the front of her mind. Her runes burned and she hissed in pain, slapping at the one behind her head. Fate, again, along with Truth and Honor. Why remind her of her oath so many times? Nicole suppressed her Will and the burn faded.

Waverly took a step closer, hand raised to… what? Comfort her? Nicole waved it away. But even now, Waverly looked at her to lead, to step up, to command, and had that iron Will locked away. Did she still not know, even after the incident in the desert, how much power she commanded?

It was obvious that she did not.

Nicole looked at the stump of her arm. “Cliffside first.”

“For leads?” Waverly asked, hopeful.   


“For an arm.”

Runecraft itself had faded out of fashion decades past, long before the Leylines dried up and made the practice extinct. Nicole would be the last surviving who had the knowledge and skill to unlock its true potential, if not for Jeremy Chetri, who stood as the strongest Runemaster in Westerly, hands down. 

He did contracts from Cliffside for those who still held to old ‘superstitions’ for their homes, their towns, their railways, most often for Protection and Consecration. Unknown to the general populace, The Cursed Continent’s new industry was  _ built  _ on runes. Westerly was still magic, whether you liked it or not.

The path to Cliffside was fastest through the Sounding Desert, but neither wanted to chance the wind again. Instead, they took the longer route around it and through the plains of the north. Here, more towns appeared and the populace was more in comfort, in luxury, so close to the railroads. 

Purgatory’s existence was a mystery to Nicole that she couldn’t quite figure out. It had been built so close to danger, yet so far from the railroads. Ore and cattle ran the West, and Purgatory seemed to have a mixture of both -- but why  _ there? _ It was far likely that Jeremy had a hand in its long ago construction and might know more.

Their travel had little conversation outside of discussions of food and who took first watch. They stopped often. Despite Waverly’s Will, she was still raised in luxury and could never match Nicole’s Gunslinger pace. Also, she stopped to annoy Nicole.

That seemed the general theme of things.

It began with Nicole trying to take command of things and pass through towns quickly. That annoyed Waverly beyond reason. She quickly found reasons to stop and gaze at the wonders of towns she’d certainly visited before. Nicole was forced to hide her runes with magic and hope that people didn’t look too hard, waiting on Waverly’s every capricious whim.

Yet Nicole would wait with narrowed eyes to the side, acting like a gruff escort, as Waverly subtly shook down the populace for leads. It was downright devious, but ultimately fruitless, though far impressive how Waverly’s smile could disarm and persuade so easily. 

Nicole was immune, of course.

And there was the little disturbing fact that lingered in Nicole’s mind: They were being followed. By whom, she did not know. They stayed far enough back to be out of her range of Sight, but followed their trail doggedly despite all attempts to dissuade them. Even at their slow pace, their follower never made themselves known. Nicole allowed it. For now.

Nicole took a little pride for herself as Waverly’s knowledge ended where Cliffside began. Again, she could take lead and direct--

“Tell me about Cliffside, Gunslinger,” Waverly said from two horsesteps behind, perched high and watching the distant town grow larger.

Nicole hunched over her saddle, her patience thin after days of travel with Waverly, and huffed a sigh.

“Dirty,” Nicole said simply. “You need a change of clothes.”

“I’m wearing brown--”

“You need to look dirtier, or we’ll be robbed two steps in.” Nicole glanced back. “I’ll dirty up and tear your riding clothes.”

Waverly’s face went beet red and Nicole squinted, trying to discern why, but found nothing. A caravan rattled by and Nicole lowered her hat, hiding her runes. Waverly smiled and waved, greeting them openly in the language of the East where they’d come from.

Waverly had more faith in them than Nicole did. So often Nicole would find and have to help those who came from Attica, lost and wandering the West, having found it too difficult and tough to withstand. 

“Attempted robbery, right, Gunslinger?” Waverly adjusted her hat, and Nicole looked away from her dark, resentful expression. “You’ll shoot them and we’ll be fine.”

“If you think I’d shoot dead a few desperate people over coin, then you think me a worse man than I am.”

That put silence in the air.

“I need to see a man named Jeremy Chetri about an arm.” Nicole gestured with her stump.

“What, you can’t just grow a new one?”

Nicole’s lack of laughter never dissuaded Waverly. She tried anyway. It was somewhat...cute. Childish, annoying beyond all reason, but cute. Nicole shook the thought from her head, and focused on the rise of Cliffside ahead. 

The town itself perched on a crossroad of canyons and existed in a series of hanging pathways and buildings. It all looked precarious, but long ago runes ensured not a single building had fallen free of where it had been inscribed within the rock. More ramshackle wooden houses had sprouted above, overlapping, until the whole town itself looked almost vertical. It was a mess of navigation and newcomers could often find themselves lost in the undersides of the town where they were likely to be robbed and taken advantage of.

Industry and richness had left when the Leylines had dried and electricity had come. Railroads were the heartbeat of the west now, and Cliffside was miles from the closest. It existed out of pure stubbornness, sucking up dwindling ore from withering mines, still producing just enough to get by. 

Lawlessness brought its own richness, however. Brothels, fences, and taverns serving harder, more illicit drinks and drugs made bustling business. In Cliffside, you could do anything, be anything, but there was a singular law that it still held over from the more civilized places of Westerly:

It was very, very bad to be a Gunslinger.

Nicole hitched their horses behind a large, empty colossus from Times Gone By. It hid them from view as she quickly worked dirt into her duster and hid a few disguise runes inside her clothes. For Waverly, they would do simpler things. She suffered a red face as Nicole took her overshirt and riding skirts to ruin. Patched sewing was worked in from Waverly’s nursing kit, and at last, Waverly looked just like any other citizen of Cliffside: desperate.

Waverly mounted her horse, and Nicole sent Calamity away, acting again as Waverly’s escort and leading her horse by the reins. They made their way slowly across the main hanging road.

“I should warn you there’s all attempts at villany here,” Nicole began. “The sorts you don’t want to smile at, Waverly. Nor should you wave.”

“I understand these things, Gunslinger. I’m no child.”

_ But you sure do act like one sometimes. _

Nicole kept her thoughts to herself.

At the stables, one of the buildings built onto the flat of the canyon and taking the open space between the edges, the Stablemaster quickly accepted their coin for Waverly’s horse insurance. 

(And a little more in promise to make sure it wasn’t stolen or purchased.)

Waverly looked at Nicole and Nicole recognized that same apprehension that was quickly hidden by that air of disaffectedness. Waverly was out of her element here, and afraid. Nicole felt a tug toward comfort and cleared her aching throat.

“To the top, my lady,” Nicole said firmly.

The Stablemaster had a distinctly disgusting grin. Their play was obvious and agreed to beforehand. Waverly was a working woman, and Nicole her escort to the brothels. Nicole wanted to slap the smile free from his crooked face, but could do nothing but lean into the assumption and create it.

_ There wasn’t anything wrong with being a working woman, damnit! _ Nicole wanted to scream.

Nicole led the way up the more well-kept walkways, upward to the ‘richer’ parts of the town. Here, only upscale brothels run by a single Madame would exist, and only the finest bars and fences. 

The city was divided into quarters. The central one, the largest, was Chetri’s workshop, drilled directly into the Leyline. The next was the Madame’s domain. The remaining would be the underhanded dealers of the city, the fences and shops, and finally the taverns.

They passed the central hanging markets and the stench of over-grilled food, swimming throughthe packed main walkways, never risking a single shortcut. Nicole’s Sight never peeled from Waverly and constantly scanned the surroundings. In a way, she thought Waverly might like Coyote. She had the potential for trickery, she just wasn’t using it for evil or against Nicole. Yet. 

Nicole feared that day.

Chetri’s workshop loomed from its prime position. It had been built at Cliffside’s beginning, and since then, had half a dozen buildings and levels built atop it that were dedicated to its cause and likeness, and it dominated the center of the cliffside city from its location.

Chetri’s secret was one he had been gifted from the Gunslingers themselves in thanks to his skills and research: the Ageless rune. Since then, he had constructed a careful enterprise in Cliffside and was the de facto authority (if any one person could be called such) in matters of maintenance, upkeep, and expansion.

The grand stone entrance into the central depths was open this morning, thankfully, and Nicole strode right in. Despite the city within which it resided, a sort of upper class did exist, and they outmatched Nicole and Waverly in clothing and style by fields apart. Nicole ignored this and found the secretary’s desk.

“How may I assist you?” the secretary said brightly, the only genuine smile they’d seen in the city.

“Tell Jeremy that Nicole’s here.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t do that. You see, he keeps a strict routine. I have to--”

“Nicole!” 

The pair turned to see Jeremy Chetri himself, clothed in a smart upscale suit with arms held wide and a beaming smile dawning on his face. He had appeared in his mid-twenties, for the last one hundred and fifty years. “My third oldest friend!”

A few strangers stared, but Jeremy swept the pair quickly through some gilded doors and into the backrooms of his workshop before they could draw conclusions. No one assumed Jeremy sought Waverly or Nicole -- he was utterly and completely devoted to his husband. Everyone in the city knew this.

Nicole held onto a rare smile as Jeremy escorted them through brightly painted hallways and rooms holding contraptions or pieces of colossi from Times Gone By. He had been the longest to study the remains of the age, but had discovered nothing of note so far. 

Every visit the workshop grew, and this was no different. 

Waverly gazed around in stupefied awe, peering curiously at everything they passed, questions bubbling up to her lips that Nicole saw suppressed. Just a moment, Nicole thought, just a moment longer.

Jeremy, at last, led them into his carefully organized office. Imported, perfect wood lined the room and a carved desk dominated the center. There, on the desk, an arm.

Not a real one. A wooden one inscribed with severe blue runes that echoed with powerful magic. Nicole found herself the one in awe this time, staring. She knew that she and Jeremy shared the Fate rune and they could expect each other, but she just hadn’t expected this.

“How long did this take you?” Nicole asked, pointing.

“Probably before you lost it,” Jeremy said, folding his hands. “I felt like I should, and I did. Then I heard you were coming here, and I knew.”

“You heard I was--”

“The Madame and I are great friends!” Jeremy waved away Nicole’s concern. “I keep you under a different name and occupation, to be assured. It will attach perfectly. The final adjustments in size I made after I knew it was you. It’s covered in all the appropriate runes as your last arm. Terribly sorry, by the way, I know it must have been extremely painful and agonizing.”

Nicole could only manage a nod.

“Oh!” Jeremy said brightly, gesturing to Waverly before bowing respectfully over one arm in the Eastern style. “Miss Waverly Cactus!”

Waverly bowed back, overjoyed. 

“I know you have questions, Miss Cactus. Shall we explore and talk while Nicole admires her new appendage?”

“Please don’t use that word,” Nicole said sourly. Jeremy laughed, Waverly echoed, and they were down the hall filling the air with technical words way beyond what Nicole knew. Nicole had forgotten to notify Waverly of Jeremy’s eccentricities, but found it utterly worthless anyhow. The pair got along like a perfect puzzle.

Nicole allowed herself a moment of enthusiasm over the wooden arm, inspecting it with a wonder she hadn’t felt in years. Decades, maybe. Some part of her had definitely missed a sense of safety that came with attachments and friendships. Seeing Jeremy refreshed her, gave her hollow heart some kind of emotion, and she drifted on the wave of that distant happiness.

The arm fit perfectly as she touched wood to skin.

Nicole click-clacked it open and closed, finding it working as if it were actually her arm. She read the runework, but some of them were indecipherable even to her. A long line of calculations were inscribed in tiny, tiny runes, probably instructing the piece how to move and communicate.

Nicole tugged at it and yelped at the pain. It was stuck, permanently, but thankfully it...well, it worked like magic! Nicole let a grin linger on her face. For a moment, just for a moment…

Jeremy held the only friendship Nicole hadn’t utterly ruined. It had always been strained by Nicole’s life as a wandering Gunslinger, but Jeremy had the kind of open, wonderful heart that maintained connections beyond years and ages. Nicole felt herself welcome each time she came, even if it was only to take advantage of his works. She felt a heavy layer of guilt set on her shoulders. 

She really should make more social calls.

“Nicole!”

Alarm. Nicole turned at once, abandoning her rolling paper and taback. 

Jeremy, panting, strained: “Miss Cactus is _ gone.” _   


Nicole felt the distant happiness be crushed in an instant by massive fists. “What?”   


“I had my security watching, waiting, but _ Fate _ , it can’t be-- “

“Tell me!”

“She told me she wanted to try the restroom herself, then walked out of the workshop. Alone.”

“Why?” Nicole demanded. “Why would she do that?”   


Jeremy offered only a look of returned panic.

Nicole pushed past him into a run. She hit the lobby at a sprint, ignoring the open calls and stares from citizens, and security allowed her at once. Nicole stopped, panting, at the edge of the cliffside walkway. 

Around her, crowds of people congregated, smoking and drinking and laughing, and Waverly was nowhere to be found.

“Shit!” Nicole shouted. “Blazing horseshit!” 

More eyes peeled off to stare.

“Well?” Nicole demanded, slapping her Fate rune and using her Sight to scan what she could see. “Where is she?  _ Where is she?”  _ Dangerously, Nicole raised her Will, raising it to sense others, and found only the mundane and moderate around her. No sign of Waverly’s beacon-like power. Some noticed her Will and stepped back, murmuring intense words. It wouldn’t be long before she was questioned by whatever kind of authority disliked magic the most, but Waverly had to be found, and found  _ fast.  _

Nicole swallowed harshly, took a breath, and resisted the urge to run in a random direction and let Fate decide. That was a quick way for their quest to end in disaster. She had to think, damnit, and think about where Waverly would end up, and who would know fastest.

Not the Master Fence, or the Tavernkeeper, but the Madame. Jeremy’s friend. 

Nicole began another disruptive sprint, keeping herself below on normal, human movement speeds lest anyone get any ideas. She made herself appear as a messenger on a run, and people jumped out of the way. Here, in the Heights, she could be working for anyone, and probably someone important.

The largest Brothel existed where the sun shone the most. Glorious glazed glass and brilliantly raised ironwork decorated a red building with black tiling. It was beautiful in a word, fantastic created by masters in a sentence. Only the best for the Madame, who appeared to have extraordinary taste.

Nicole pushed through the glass doors into the seductively lit foyer. Well-dressed gentlemen and bright dresses filled the lobby. The woman at the desk waved at Nicole, batting eyelashes, gesturing her over.

“Honey, I know what you’re looking for,” the woman said slyly, a smile curling on her face. “I know  _ who _ you’re looking for.”

Nicole, barely panting from the run, squinted. “You do?”   


“She’ll see you now.” The woman pulled back the half-door and gestured up the stairs. “Syndra’s waiting for you, Miss Haught.”

Nicole froze, heartbeat in her ears. Haught. The Madame knew her name. No, keep calm. She might know part of it, but she might not know all of it.

_ Could she be the one who has my name? _

Focus on Waverly.

Nicole grit her teeth. It wouldn’t be easy to get the information and the eyes she needed. But she had to try, or Waverly would end up dead or  _ worse. _

Nicole took the stairs, calming herself with breathing exercises drilled into her for the survival of the oath ritual. This might be-- no, it  _ would _ be worse. Through her careful web of spies, the Madame had  _ everything _ , knew  _ everybody _ , and there had to be no explanation that the one person she couldn’t manipulate was her equal in terms of authority in the city.

Nicole shut her eyes, finalizing her breathing with one hand at the door. She raised her Will, carefully, slowly, trying to See beyond. Runes blocked her.

Damn it, Jeremy! Why did you have to be so goddamn  _ nice? _

“Come in, Nicole.”   


Nicole swallowed hard, knowing she was walking directly into a trap, and turned the handle. Thankfully, Syndra was clothed in a full dress, but it hugged her curves in a way that would make every single person in the city glance twice for more than a few minutes. Nicole looked everywhere but at Syndra, and took a single step into the room.

Runes clicked home. Yep. Trap.

“Well, that was easy,” Syndra said.

Nicole curled her hands into fists. Inner calm. Inner calm. Honor, integrity, loyalty.

“You took her,” Nicole accused openly. No time for trickery, no time for half-truths.

Syndra narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps.” She leaned back in her chair. She gestured for Nicole to walk forward, to sit herself across from her, to put herself directly in the line of fire and desperation for the knowledge she sought. “Depends on who it is.”

Nicole knew it wasn’t a slip. Syndra’s expression of ignorance was a false gesture of goodwill so that Nicole would sit, relax, and die. 

Nicole sat.

“Tea,” Syndra gestured. Nicole made to decline. “Drink,” Syndra instructed dangerously. Nicole had to give a field to gain a grain, so she poured herself a cup and drank. This was Jeremy’s friend, after all, nevermind his expansive and somewhat naive heart. What could _ possibly  _ go wrong?

“Tell me,” Syndra purred, leaning forward to rest an arm on the armrest, somehow making her breasts look amazing as she did so. “Who is _ she? _ ”   


“Her last name is Cactus.”

“Is she prettier than me?”   


Nicole swallowed and looked away.

“Oh, how I  _ love _ your kind. So honest.” Syndra crossed her legs. “It’s a shame you’re the last. Gunslingers…” Syndra hummed and hugged herself in an expression of savory delight. “So good.”

Nicole stared openly. So she knew her profession, part of her name, and  _ what else? _

“Relax,” Syndra said, gesturing with one hand and sipping tea with the other. “I don’t have your name.”

Against her will, Nicole did. That was one less danger. 

“I know who does, though.”

Nicole breathed through clenched teeth.

“One, or the other, darling. One question only. You get who owns your name, or you get your little cactus.” Syndra stood. “But not yet.”

Nicole made to stand, only to find herself locked in place, sluggish, unable to move. “What did you do?”   


“I want to know.” Syndra undid her dress, revealing what lay beneath. Silk and lace curled over her body in ways that Nicole had thought impossible. Bare skin lay open for Nicole’s view. “I want to know if she’s prettier than me.”

“Sh…” Nicole’s teacup fell and she shut her eyes, but that made it worse as Syndra crawled over her limp body, hands caressing her face. 

“I want to know,” Syndra purred, draping herself over Nicole. “I know a lot, you know.” She slapped Nicole hard. “Look at me.”

Nicole had to. She did.

“Is she prettier than me?”   


Nicole kept her mouth shut, even as her body betrayed her and she couldn’t move. 

Syndra sat up, straddling her. “I know a lot about you, Nicole Haught.” She took advantage and pushed back Nicole’s duster, undoing her vest and massaging her breasts through her shirt. “I know your mother’s name, and your father’s. I know your little miss Cactus. I know  _ everything.” _

“St...” Nicole croaked through the spell. “St…”

“What was that?” Syndra leaned in, breath curling under Nicole’s ear. “I didn’t hear you. You know what I want.”

“N…”   


“Is she prettier than me?” Syndra demanded. “Is she?”

Her fingers dipped below Nicole’s chin to her throat, over the bandaging, and tightened. 

“I don’t want your sex, Gunslinger, and I know you don’t want mine either.” Syndra’s hand tightened. “I want your truth. I want your name.  _ Give it to me _ .”

Nicole began to choke.

The bandaging, the stitching, was so careful that it didn’t tear, even as Syndra’s hand curled and tightened over her airways, restricting them.

“Give me your name,” Syndra demanded. “ _ Give me your name or  _ little _ Miss Cactus _ dies cold and alone, throat slit in the alley, and _ you do, too _ . _ ” _

Nicole felt her runes kick in, raising her Will, fighting with every inch of her ability, but Syndra had well and truly trapped her and she had allowed it.  _ And hadn’t she seen this coming? _

How could she be so fucking _ naive? _

Or she had seen this coming. She had, and decided that  _ it was worth it. _

Nicole gave a slight nod, and Syndra’s eyes lit like fire, loosening to let Nicole breathe, to let Nicole speak, to let Nicole give her truth.

_ “Nicole Rayleigh Haught.” _

Syndra threw back her head and laughed. “Really? You chose that yourself, didn’t you?” She smiled, cat-like and satisfied. She immediately left Nicole and threw a blanket over her shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. It’s mine now.” Syndra glanced at herself in the mirror. “Which do you want, Gunslinger? The one who has your name, or your little Cactus?”

Nicole didn’t hesitate.

“Cactus.”

Syndra laughed again. “But you never answered my first question. Is she prettier than me?”   


Nicole felt every rune in her body alight as the tea left her system. Her Will rose, but it would be useless here between Syndra’s runes. 

_ “Yes.” _

Syndra’s face turned maddeningly cold, furiously crazed, and she stalked across the room toward Nicole. “Your little bitch Cactus is out of your hands, now. Doc Holliday has her, and he’s not letting her go for  _ anything.”  _ But Syndra snapped her fingers and magic cracked. “Never let it be said I do not honor my oaths, however. I’ve put things in motion, but you certainly won’t thank me for it.”

Nicole rose in an instant, looming over Syndra, and caused her to take a few careful steps back. No fear. Never. She had Nicole’s name, she could do whatever the hell she wanted.

“Leave,” Syndra commanded. “Leave,  _ Nicole Rayleigh Haught.” _

Nicole nodded, almost relieved.

“But when your little quest is over, when your name is mine and mine alone, you’ll come back here.” Syndra’s smile had turned predatory. “You’ll return to me, and I will make you kill again, Gunslinger.”

Nicole tried not to make her leaving look like she fled, but that’s what it was.

Nicole fled.

Nicole had her knowledge, but had lost everything in exchange. Nicole buttoned her vest and rearranged herself. She snatched back her hat and slammed it atop her head, busting through the half-door, ignoring the smiling secretary and the knowing looks from everyone in the room, and found herself on the street with no idea where to go.

That was when her eyes met Waverly’s.

_ I’ve put things in motion, but you certainly won’t thank me for it. _

Waverly had stopped midwalk and had a look on her face Nicole couldn’t make sense of. It seemed betrayed, confused, and embarrassed all at once. At once Nicole recognized that familiar fury, that fire, and it told her Waverly’s rage burned in her heart and something very, very bad was about to happen.

Waverly broke into a storming gait.

Then Nicole saw Doc Holliday in the shadows, peeling from the crowd, reaching out for Waverly--

Red. Fury. Fire. It shook her bones, her soul, her mind.

Let it never be questioned that Nicole’s draw speed rivaled the likes of Doc Holliday.

Nicole pulled free Peacemaker, aimed, and fired at the same time that Doc pulled and fired his, too.

_ “No!” _ Waverly screamed as both guns went off at the same time.

Nicole steeled herself for the remains of Doc Holliday, only to spy both bullets hanging mid air, having frozen between their guns and their targets. Massive Will permeated the space between them. Waverly’s Will. Waverly’s magic had frozen Peacemaker’s consecrated bullet, along with an ordinary one as well, the instant it had fired.

Waverly’s eyes were shut, her face pale and strained, and both Doc and Nicole stared at her in open, pure amazement.

Unfortunately, such a momentous spell had gone off like a flare in the night. The beacon call would catch the attention of every Black-Willed magic-sucker in the city, and they’d be on them like rats to trash.

Nicole glanced to Doc, who glanced to Nicole, who glanced to Waverly.

“We need to get her out of the city,” they both echoed. Bullets and guns dropped and met holsters. Waverly dropped bonelessly, and Nicole caught her first, Doc turning with his hand on his gun, sweeping his Sight through the crowd.

“They’re coming,” Nicole urged, picking up Waverly easily. “Waverly, her horse is at the stables, if we can--”

“Not without a fight,” Doc said.

“Mr. Chetri, we can get her inside there--”

“Never make it past the markets.”

“Okay, _ jackass _ . Tell me where to go.”

He nodded once. “This way.” 

They both hustled down a side walkway. Hungry eyes turned up from the lower levels, watching them pass from piles of trash and refuse. Calculating how to get to them fast enough, how to get the first bite, the first tender moment of Magic.

Nicole wanted to ignore their stares, but forced herself to raise her Will and use her Sight to scout for danger. She felt Doc do the same as they hurried over open air.

_ At this moment, I could push him into the canyon. Let him fall from the walkway. No duel, no honor, just death. _

Her honor rune burned. No chance. She grimaced and forced herself some level of trust for the man, but knew she could equal his draw if he tried anything.

Lower and lower they went, across to the fourth section of the canyon, the land of taverns and drinks and drugs, the center of debauchery and filth. Was Doc leading them _ all  _ to get killed like some suicidal madman? 

The last walkway. The last stretch. Into the most populated bar, the center of the dessicated fourth quarter, the domain of whatever was worse than human and Gunslinger.

“No.” Nicole shook her head. “No, not down there.” 

Doc set his mouth in a thin line and jerked his head.

Behind them, hordes rushed across walkways and wooden buildings, jumping from roof to roof, coming from the other quarters along the lower, underside levels. In minutes, in moments, they would be caught between dozens of Black-Willed individuals trying to get a fresh fix. 

Doc cast his gaze forward.

The eyes waiting for them in the Tavern District watched them, but did nothing. Curiously, the Black-Willed desperates remained among themselves, not moving toward them.

Dammit all.

Nicole Haught, carrying Waverly Cactus, followed Doc Holliday into Hell.

===

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! you made it to the end!! I really hope you enjoyed reading along!
> 
> Chapter 3 is live on my Patreon! Meet the King of Demons and find some unwanted answers among the enemy! Nicole Haught might just hit her lowest point yet as betrayal strikes!   
> Our heroes go where they absolutely shouldn't ever go and more!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Be sure to check my twitter for more ways to support if you enjoy my work  
> @Sensitivepigeon


	3. Tell That Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicole faces off against demons and learns a world-shattering truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again in this krispy kreme

Nicole had been kidnapped. That much she  _ did _ know.

The strange old man before her began to carve into a piece of wood. Nicole sat on a log and swung her legs, peering curiously at him over the fire. The dark plains around them resounded with night calls of skycats and the bellows of behemoths in the distance. 

“Are you taking me back to my ma and pa?” Nicole asked eventually, breaking the silence.

“No,” he responded gruffly. “They don’t want you no more.”   


Nicole crossed her arms. “Why not?”

“‘Cause you done and been given up, kid.”

“You’re a liar.”

The man stared hard. “I am many things, kid. But a liar ain’t one of ‘em.”

That tone sent shivers down Nicole’s spine and she dropped that line of thinking.

“See, your ma and pa did some things and wanted to get out of ‘em. They ain’t got money to pay, so they done paid with you. You got it?”

“No,” Nicole said. “I want to go home.”

“You are,” the man said. “Just to a different one with other kids like you. You’ll get along fine.” He leaned forward, gesturing with his knife. “You got a destiny, kid. Not many people have that.”

“I don’t want destiny, I want my ma.”

The man let out a sigh and shook his head. Nicole tried to hold back tears but a sniffle escaped.

Another sigh.

“Go on, get it out,” he said gruffly.

Nicole began to sob quietly into her hands. 

* * *

  
  


Hell was a bar.

Wooden slats came together in a massive building at the lowest point of the city. It was drilled into the stone of the canyon, lingering like a rattlesnake peering up through the sand with death in its eyes. Far from the gentlemen of the Heights, here were the Black-Willed remains of the magical community. The Old West lingered here in the scent of leather and whiskey, but it was dying, and dying ugly.

Belly-side up and rotting, Hell was a bar named The Revenant.

Nicole fell to a slow stride as the underbelly of Cliffside swallowed them whole. Doc walked with ease and familiarity, a smirk lingering on his face that even Nicole could see in the dim lighting hanging from the ceiling. 

“Drop your disguise, Haught,” Doc drawled. “You will not need it.”

Nicole, spine stiff with expectation, dropped the wasteful use of magic instantly. Not because it was Doc’s idea, anyhow. Just that her reputation might put her at an advantage.

Those outside the bar spared them a glance and a double-take. One peeled from the shadows with a hand on his gun and a rusted star at his breast. Harrowed eyes narrowed at Nicole, then Waverly, then Doc.

“She lives,” he said, yellow cat-like pupils focused on Nicole. 

Doc said nothing, only led the way inside.

The stench hit Nicole first. Demon hellfire, Black Wills, and inhumanity overwhelmed her senses and she dropped her Sight immediately. She had a grip on her Will, just in case, not that anyone here would risk Peacemaker’s divine might. 

The lighting in here accentuated the mystery of its patrons, shadowing faces from her view. The clink of glass and hollow laughter filled the smoky air. Nicole tightened her grip on Waverly as a particularly large figure emerged from the depths of the backrooms to the front bar, settling his hands on the wood and leaning forward.

His hair was styled, dyed white in streaks, and his teeth were sharp. He wore an oversized fur coat, no shirt, and a rattleskin belt that held only darkened guns. Black Will rolled off him in waves along with the sense of Hell.

Demon.

Not just  _ any _ demon.

Bobo Del Rey held a curling, snaking smile, and lifted one hand to gesture welcome.

Doc tipped his hat in response. Something passed between the two, and Doc made his way beyond the bar, toward the stairs, leading Nicole further. 

“Upstairs,” Doc offered as Nicole paused. “A safe room for Miss Waverly.”   


Nicole glared, as if she could kill him with her eyes alone. In a battle of Wills, it might just be possible.

But she took the offer. Waverly’s safety was paramount and she had no choice, no chance, of getting past the hordes kept at bay outside.

Upstairs, the wooden walls were bare, painted red, and the sound of snores and moans came from the doors of the hallway. In the back, to the left, a solid wooden door with a protection rune inscribed within the grain.

Nicole pushed inside and set Waverly down on a surprisingly soft bed. It was hard to say when she would wake from her burnout stupor. An hour would be a good guess, and hopefully no more than that. Her display of raw power would have drained her entire reserves. There had been no fine spellcraft to ease the burden of her Will making itself known. 

A level of unusual concern curled in Nicole’s heart. That Will -- it felt older than Waverly and more powerful than she had expected, beyond what she remembered feeling in the desert. Something lingered on the verge of connecting, but nothing came to her except the faint sense of an unknowable, bright color.

Nicole turned her gaze and found Doc watching her. She quickly affected a mask, unsure if he had seen her curiosity and concern so open. Damn. He must know her as Oathbound. 

“Bastard,” Nicole spat, seeing if she could get past his casual demeanor and cocky smirk. Her disadvantage irked her, making her hatred open in the air between the pair. He matched it.

“Is that not your own title?” He pulled a cigar free and lit it. One puff later he gestured to the man with the rusted star. “Xavier Dolls.” He pointed the butt of the cigar back her way. “Nicole Haught.”

To her complete and utter surprise, Dolls spoke a Velusian title for Gunslinger she hadn’t heard in decades.

_ “World-breaker.” _

Title - more  _ epithet _ . The Velusians had been wiped out, partly due to the Gunslinger’s Great Betrayal. Nicole winced and looked away. He wasn’t Velusian, that much was clear, but somehow he had a knowledge that drove a dagger through Nicole’s heart despite her relatively young age compared to the other Gunslingers, and being born after the betrayal.

Nicole narrowed her eyes, flicking them to Doc. “And you think he’s innocent?”   


“I never pretended to be,” Doc responded evenly. 

Nicole took the verbal slap like a champion and said nothing at all, changing the conversation to the situation at hand.

“How do I know you won’t kill her?” Nicole asked, hand itching for Peacemaker.   


“Let us just say that I am a long-time friend of the  _ Cactus _ family,” Doc said. “As is our friend Xavier.”

“You’re friends to no one, bound to no oaths.” Nicole bristled, on the verge of drawing. “You’ll gut her when my back is turned.”

“I had my chance when she came to me. Did I take it?”

To that, Nicole had no reply. Why would Waverly…

“If you can’t trust him, trust me,” Dolls said. “I’ll sit with her, on my honor as I was once a deputy.”

“If you think I’m leaving this room, then you’re wrong,” Nicole said. 

A thunderous knock on the door, and Holliday casually pulled it open, revealing a massive hulk of meat collected into the form of a man. Nicole’s eyes went wide and she almost took a step back.

He settled his gaze upon Nicole.

“Bobo wants you,” said the man.

Nicole glanced to Doc, who gave a slight tilt of his head and a smile behind his moustache. He had what he wanted: Waverly. And now he could dispose of Nicole so easily, throw her to the demons, and not have to lift his gun.

“Come now,” the hulk ordered. His hand rested on a club that would bash Nicole’s brains clear from her skull.

Nicole didn’t need her familiar to tell her this was a bad idea, but came forward regardless. For the second time in less than an hour, she had allowed herself to be trapped for this damnable woman.

The hulking demon led her back through the twisting hallways to a final room. It had to have been some kind of office, but the wreckage that remained barely spoke of any decency of its inhabitants. Drunken demons lounged in chairs as open women lingered by their sides. Black Will filled the air. Bobo dominated the room from a singular plush throne, leaning forward to settle on his knees at the sight of Nicole. He was stacked on rows and rows of ruined books, putting him at an advantage of height.

“Welcome,” he said, his face flat. 

Nicole paused, hand held to her side, as the door closed behind her. 

He barked a laugh and smiled. “No need for that, Haught. You’re among friends.” He threw himself from his throne and sauntered toward her, rolling muscles on display, his twisted humanity shone free for her to see. 

“Just to get this started,” Nicole said, gazing around the room. “I’ve had a damned hell of a day, and I won’t be giving up my name for the second time.” She cleared her throat at the strange looks they gave her. “Just saying.”

“We don’t want your name,” Bobo said, swinging an arm around Nicole and leading her forward into his land of debauchery and sin. “You can keep it, Bastard. I was honest when I said you were among friends, after all.”

Nicole wanted to pull away, to gun him down, but then they would all be upon her. She might kill the majority of them, but die trying to get them all.

“I’m not your friend,” Nicole managed past her disgust. Alcove after alcove revealed new horrors, new hideous sights of Black Will being passed back and forth and drawn from sources of magic. Human sources.

“You are.” He spun her around at his desk, currently being used as a sex platform. “See, you’re just like us.”

“Never,” Nicole spat.

“You’re a Godless woman, Bastard,” he said, grinning. “I heard it from the grapevine. They’ve abandoned you, just as they have us.”

Nicole, who must have some inkling of remembering the crossroads, shook her head, though the truth struck home. The denial stuck in her throat, blocked by her truth rune.

“What is it you want?” Nicole asked.

“I want for nothing, as you can see,” he said with a short laugh. “I have everything I need, everything I want. What could you possibly offer that could mean anything to me, the  _ King  _ of Demons?”   


Nicole said nothing.

“I’m giving you some advice, Bastard. Just a bit of help on your oathbound journey. You see, us killers stick close.” He underlined this by coming even closer to her, his face lingering in her personal space far too long, close enough that Nicole could see the Hell hiding under the thin veneer of humanity in his eyes. His face broke into another sharp, curdling smile that stilled Nicole’s bones.

“You want to kill me so badly, don’t you?” Bobo asked. 

The affirmative broke over Nicole’s rune and stuck in her throat.

“But you won’t,” Bobo said, pulling away, frowning and pantomiming prayer. “Because I can be  _ redeemed _ , I can be  _ purged, _ I can be  _ saved.” _

“I could--”

“Save it, Bastard.” He leaned in again. “I don’t want it. Just pointing out you’re a little weakling. Caught between good and bad. Just pick a side, would you, and save us all the trouble?” He paused as the pair on his desk orgasmed. “Make sure it’s mine,” he said, arms spread wide in ecstatic gesture. “Because I’m about to save you a whole heap of trouble.”

Nicole held her ground, nostrils flaring, hand near Peacemaker. His Will rose, blackening the air, blinding her senses until he truly dominated the room. His human facade fell and his true form clawed through, red and horned, macabre and scorched, dirty claws and sharp teeth.

“I could have your name,” he growled out. “Your soul, your magic, your Peacemaker. I’ll tell you a single word, a single secret, and you will be  _ broken.” _

Nicole gripped the pearl handle.

“I want for nothing that you have,” he continued. His next smile showed an array of fangs and rot. “Just show me your Will. I want to see it!”

Nicole shook her head, taking a step back. She could still escape. Somehow. 

“Come on!” he urged, taking a step forward. “Show me that legendary Gunslinger  _ power! Show me you still have a fucking spine that I could use! _ ” He swiped one massive hand toward her and she dodged.  _ “That I could rip out and devour if I wanted to!” _

Nicole could see nothing of what had once been the filled room. Demons were present in the shadows around her, watching with wild, staring eyes. Her Sight was fading, overcome with Hell, and she had to. Damn it all, she had to, risking something worse than death. A feeding. A consumption. Something that would leave her desiccated and empty.

Nicole raised her Will.

“Yes!” Bobo cried in ecstasy.  _ “Yes!” _

Nicole let her mask fall away and felt the room brighten. Her Will rose and burst forth from her skin, permeating the space with the color gold and white, the divine runes on her body blazing as she pulled free Peacemaker.

And all her other guns, too.

They hung in the air, connected by golden circles, aimed at various demons. In an instant, she could fire them all in every direction, knowing every bullet, sensing every death. Every redemption. Every moment of freedom.

Nicole stood, her wooden arm raised and the severe runes alight and blazing, her other hand gripping Peacemaker and aiming down the barrel. To fire would be suicide. But the desire for glorious death was strong, tempting, powerful. To die with honor and love in her heart. Love.

She had no love.

She had no honor.

All her light faded at once, drenching the room in black.

Bobo’s laughter scattered through her consciousness and took up the space that had once been filled with light. 

“How _ sad, _ ” he said, returning to his human form as the room coalesced around the pair. The demons held smiles and returned to their dangerous delights. “The Last Gunslinger can’t even kill a demon.”

“Fuck you,” Nicole said, panting. “Fuck you all.”

“I didn’t know you wanted that.” He leaned forward, crawling into her space again, face inspecting her this way and that before he laughed again and again and again. “Now, in return, I give to you a couple words of advice, Bastard.”

Nicole took in a steady breath, meeting his gaze evenly.

“The Chain Man is comin’, and even I can’t save you,” he said, another mimic of sadness crossing his face. “The Last of the Gunslingers is going to die screaming, and there ain’t enough drink for you downstairs to forget it.”   


“I already knew that.”

“But what you don't know about Little Miss Cactus is her last name.” He leaned forward, almost as if to kiss her, before his head turned aside to her ear. 

_ “Earp.” _

Nicole’s world fell away as the blood left her face. Her body went limp and she swayed dangerously, almost falling before she tensed and returned to reality. 

Her mentor, he had turned against the rules and made a family. No. Impossible. Was it? It made  _ sense, _ in a cruel way, that Fate had ultimately put her in the path of Wyatt’s heirs and she had to, No, she  _ needed  _ to get back to Waverly immediately. The iron in her Will, the familiarity and age, it was the  _ truth. _

Bobo began to laugh again, low and echoing, with demonic undertones, as Nicole fled the alcoves, the Black, the room. She had to get to Waverly.  _ Now. _

_ “Drinks are on me, Bastard!” _ Bobo called after her.  _ “Have as many as you like!” _

Nicole sprinted through the hallways, shoving past lingering demons, until she found the safe room.

The door stood open. Empty. It was empty. Nicole took a step inside and cast her Will forward, reading the room, but it had been cleared by Doc. 

On the walls, a Gunslinger rune, a mockery from Holliday, the turncoat.

_ Don’t follow. _

Nicole threw herself at the excuse of a window and found a maddening amount of time had passed. The sun had vanished and the night gripped Cliffside in its claws. Outside were the night folk and there was no way Nicole could make it out alive.

Her runes burned. Her oath-line seared through her mind, driving her to her knees. Failure. The nearest Gunslinger would come and end her agony, but there was no cure. No fellow Gunslinger. No calm sense of the final bullet. Her mentor would not come to her and offer her the final death, a release. The palms of her hands found her eye sockets and she screamed and screamed and screamed.

Her good hand found Peacemaker, but she could not pull the trigger on herself, no matter how badly she wanted to. Her runes prevented such a death. If she was to die a failure, she would die in ritual, to the bullet of another Gunslinger.

“Please,” Nicole managed through the pain. A plea, a prayer. “Please,  _ someone _ .” She slammed her wooden arm down and scrawled a divine rune, a calling. _ “Come to me,” _ she cried in Velusian, the language of the Gods.  _ “Come to me, I call you, Guide!” _

All that answered was echoing, deep silence.

No one came.

Magic began to fall from her fingers like sand. Nicole watched and felt in horror as her runes faded to scars, her power leaving her, her sense of self slipping away in a howling wind of failure. What remained of her heart cracked into pieces and blew away in the breeze.

The Last of the Gunslingers stood, coughed hollowly, and made her way downstairs for free drinks.

* * *

Waverly woke to the sway of a horse beneath her. She blinked into the blinding sun of the desert plain and distant mesas, a feeling of despair curling in her heart as she realized, slowly, what had happened. The man at her back smelled of cigars and mustache oil, keeping her from falling from the saddle down into the dirt.

She was being taken back to Purgatory after some kind of fainting spell.

_ “Heeeeey,” _ she slurred.

“Awake, now, Miss Waverly?” Doc asked, his ever-present smirk coming through his voice.

The world swam. 

“Hey, stop.” Waverly tried to dismount and Doc quickly caught her, forcing her back onto the saddle. “Stop, wait. No fair.”

“Life ain’t fair.”

Plans twisted in her dizzied mind. She had to…it lingered it out of reach. Something. Had to  _ something. _

“Gotta...save…”

“Not your quest, Miss Waverly.”   


“Wha…happened?”

Things clicked and connected, but one massive overarching piece was missing.

“Nothing important to be missed,” Doc said. “We shall return you to Purgatory’s safety posthaste, Miss Waverly.”

That put the hot iron to her awareness. 

“No!” Waverly insisted, sitting up. “No, no!”

“Yes,” Dolls said evenly from his position astride a horse that trotted two steps behind Doc’s. “It’s best for you to return there and remain there.”

Waverly looked around and saw no sign of Cliffside’s trail. Her own horse had been tied to Dolls’s, and returned a blank look at her hopeful stare.

No sign of the Gunslinger.

“Gunslinger!” Waverly called desperately, struggling. “Gunslinger, I’ve been--”

“She ain’t here,” Doc drawled, not even disturbed by the fighting Waverly. “She decided to remain behind.”

Waverly’s mind went blank with fury, and she threw a rather ineffective punch toward Holliday. It struck home and left him simply irritated, pulling hard on the reins and dismounting them both.

“Stop!” Waverly said, throwing more fists and a huge, well-ignored tantrum. “Stop this at once!”

“You will get on your horse, Miss Waverly, and come with us,” Doc instructed, dragging her toward her horse and depositing her there. “Back to Purgatory, where you’ll be safe.”   


“Maybe I don’t want to be _ safe!” _ Waverly shouted, stomping her foot. “I don’t want to just sit and  _ wait. _ You two have done nothing but sit around and watch dirt since Wynonna was taken!”

“She gave us an important duty,” Doc growled back.

“Instructions to keep you safe, Waverly.” Dolls came over, trying to cool the space between them before Doc lost his temper. “Wynonna can handle her own business. She made that clear the night she left.”

“Left?” Waverly got in his face.  _ “Left?  _ You two brainless cowboys think she _ left?” _

“What was left in the room was…unfortunate circumstance,” Doc explained, not-so-patiently. “But ultimately, she chose to leave to go about her business elsewhere. Now you will stay in Purgatory, safe, until she does choose to return.”

Waverly fell limp with shock. Wynonna had left her. Abandoned her. And now, the Gunslinger-- Truly? No. An oath-bound Gunslinger couldn’t just  _ leave.  _ The old stories were true, she knew this now, and the oath-bond would last until the quest was complete, and Waverly had made very, very clear the quest.

Plots and plans. Thoughts and considerations. 

Waverly turned about-face from her horse and made a declaration, a bold-faced lie.

“I love her. We’re in _ love.” _

Doc Holliday threw back his head and laughed loudly enough for the nearby skycats to scurry. 

“Nicole Haught does not love anyone but her own duty,” Doc continued after his laughter had diminished Waverly’s boldness. “The Gunslingers take oaths against family and connection.”

Waverly’s face went red. The romance novels she’d read, they hadn’t quite mentioned  _ that. _

“Dolls, round us up. Circle the horses.” Doc sighed. “We will remain here a while, until the truth has settled on Waverly’s mind.”

Dolls nodded in agreement. It wasn’t long before the horses were gathered, reined in with a makeshift hitching post, and a fire blazed into the dusk. Waverly sat and gathered a blanket around herself, thinking. Plotting. Doc lit a cigar and watched her, ready to counter, as Dolls began to clean his guns.

Cactus behemoths bellowed in the distance, and Waverly curled closer in on herself. She wanted to ride off alone, seek out her Gunslinger, but to do so would be death. There was no telling what other monsters lurked in the night in this land of the unknown. 

Doc leveled a stare toward Waverly as the fire blazed. 

“What you do not seem to understand, dear Waverly?” he asked, puffing his cigar. “Gunslingers ain’t human. They don’t feel the way you do. The ritual, the runes, it sets them apart from humanity. Hollows out the heart until all that remains is rules and duty.”

“She had a duty to  _ me _ ,” Waverly muttered.

“Nicole Haught is an interesting creature who has killed better men than Dolls here.” Doc shook his head. “I doubt even an oath-bond would be enough to draw any sort of goodness out of her. She is Godless.”

Waverly narrowed her eyes. She had seen some level of...maybe.  _ Then again,  _ Waverly thought, remembering Nicole’s trip to the Brothel while Waverly had been missing,  _ maybe not. _

“What do you know about those women she killed?” Dolls asked.   


Waverly looked away.

“Medania might seem far away, a distant world.” Dolls gestured East, toward the coast and Medania. “But it’s not. In Berrymore, Nicole Haught killed three women in cold blood.”

Waverly hunched over further, becoming even smaller somehow. So it was true, then.

“She’s done far worse than that,” Doc said. “But enough. Night has fallen enough. I shall take first watch.”

Night overcame the trio. Waverly lay down on her bedroll, listening to Doc hum an ancient tune, and plotted. Planned. Something had to be done. She couldn’t just return to Purgatory, an ordinary life, after her glimpse of what lay outside. If the Gunslinger wouldn’t help her, perhaps others would. Waverly would continue the quest, whether the men agreed or not.

But sleep claimed her before she could come to a conclusion, leading silence over all.

  
  


When Waverly woke next, the moon was fat and full, and the humming tune had stopped. Concerned, she turned over. Doc Holliday had fallen asleep at his watch. Dolls’s snores reached her ears.

She sat up, alarmed, and almost called his name when a rustle in the brush caught her attention.

Waverly turned, only to spy a new man. He stood in leathers and looked Velusian, the Elder Humans, who had claimed this land before Medanians had wiped them almost to extinction for their magic. His hair was black and striped with red, and a clever little smile spread across his mouth.

He lifted a finger to his lips and gestured for her to follow.

Waverly silently pulled herself free, grabbed a blanket, and followed beyond the cacti and brush, picking her way carefully and keeping her ears open for the sound of predators. But the way the man moved, he seemed completely at ease and drifted through the undergrowth as if it did not impede him, and Waverly followed him into darkness.

At last, a good distance from the fire, he turned and revealed himself.

Waverly fell to her knees at once.

Coyote, a God, a trickster, had called her forward. She swallowed hard and kept her face averted, her body trembling from fear and reverence.

_ “No need for fear,” _ Coyote began past his ever growing smile. _ “Look ahead, Waverly Cactus. Show me your face!” _

Waverly slowly looked up and was greeted by a wide, beaming look of assurance.

“Master Coyote, revered God--”

_ “No need for pleasantries! There is trickery afoot.” _ Coyote wrinkled his nose.  _ “And I do not prefer trickery unless it is mine and mine alone.” _

Waverly felt her mouth run dry and did not move an inch. “Wh-What would you ask of me?” She blinked, glancing side to side. “Am I dreaming…?”

_ “Are you? Perhaps!”  _ Coyote sat and curled around himself. _ “You draw me forward, with your clever plots and your careful lies. I feel your reverence and respect! I owe you, after all. I did you an unkindness with my wind, so I shall repay you here and now.” _

“Can you get me away from them?” Waverly asked, bold now. “I need to save my sister, she’s in danger. _ I can feel it.” _

_ “I can answer nothing, Waverly Cactus, nor can I interfere within the Fate that has claimed you.” _

Waverly sighed and fought the desire to just put her face in the dirt and lie there, dejected.

_ “But what I can tell you is that the men do not act of their own accord. They lie close to their truths, and find comfort in the illusion that has been granted them.” _

“Who controls them?”   


_ “Someone beyond my vision and knowing.” _

“But what do I do!” Waverly stood fully, exhausted and too fed up to be afraid. “What do I do  _ now?” _   


_ “They sleep deeply, and dream of nothing at all. Seek your own heart, Waverly Cactus. Seek the storm within, and without, and stand astride Destiny with my blessing. Go forth and claim yourself.” _

And with that, Coyote was gone, leaving behind a furiously frustrated Waverly.

Halfway through a particularly spiked curse, Waverly woke to the blazing sun. She sat up at once, the dream sharp in her mind, and turned to glance at the men.

Both slept, just as Coyote had said.

Waverly got up and wasted no time packing her things. She took them from her horse, Blaze, and tied them around herself as much as she could. It wasn’t long before her back ached under the weight and she forced herself to shed as much as possible. Only the essentials. A bedroll, some dried food, and...

A gun. That’s what she needed.

She tiptoed over to Doc, only to find it unnecessary. A few taps to his face confirmed it: nothing could wake him now. 

“Well,” Waverly said, looking down. “Who’s the cool cowboy now?”

She robbed him of his things, including his abandoned duster. She settled the too-large hat on her head and knelt to pick up the gun that she’d never seen Doc use. It shined in the light and seemed to breathe it. The pearl handle fit perfectly within her small grip and Waverly raised it to the sun to inspect it.

Runes.

This gun did not belong to Doc.

With a sour look at the sleeping man, Waverly holstered it by her side with rope. She looked ridiculous, surely, but at least her womanhood was hidden and she appeared well-armed to bandits. 

Not that there were any where she was going.

Waverly took one last long look at the campsite before turning East, toward the dark horizon, along the fastest way to return to her journey.

The Ever-Turning Storm.

* * *

  
  


Laughter. Some of it demonic. The slam of a glass, the burn of whiskey, the feel of bare skin. The taste of alcohol and the smell of sex. The blinding, overwhelming sense of debauchery and sin, the utter damnation of the soul.

The pain was gone.

_ “Take me upstairs,” _ someone purred in her ear.

_ Yes. _

The sound of a door slamming open and silence falling. Nicole was still giggling, standing to follow the woman leading her, as heavy bootsteps clomped across the wooden floorboards.

A hand fell on her shoulder and tightened painfully. Nicole hardly felt it as she turned, swaying, smiling, slurring, “ _ Yeeees?” _   


The fist hit her harder than the whiskey.

  
  


A headache and the taste of sour dirt and vomit. Nicole blinked her eyes open to the blazing, fiery sun that glared down at her as if she had personally offended it. She sat up slowly, world spinning, guts revolting, and turned aside to relieve her stomach of what was left of the demonic whiskey.

Then she lay there.

Someone kicked her. 

“Get up,” said the man.

Nicole, stubborn, refused. Leave her to rot and die within the desert. She had failed--

Another kick.

“Get up, you sad sack of horseshit.”

_ “Urgghhh.” _ Nicole rolled over. Only one person could call her that and not die. Her heart blazed. Another Gunslinger? Another--

Nope.

A thick Velusian face stared down at her. A stranger. A runed stranger, judging by the lines on his arms and body. He wore a simple vest and trousers, appearing Medanian, but Nicole could hear his thick accent and see his aged features. Elder Human.

“A God?” Nicole asked, a little bit of hope.

“My name is not God.” He kicked her again, but not as hard this time. “I am just a man,  _ World-breaker. _ ”

“Will you kill me?”   


He appeared unconcerned by such things and gave a shrug. “Depends. Get up.”   


Nicole sat up as much as she could before almost blacking out. She was hauled to her feet by the scruff of her duster and set upon the rough remains of a log. In the cove of dusty, weak trees, a fire rumbled in the center of a makeshift camp. 

Nicole huffed a sigh before a waterskin appeared. She took it with a bow and gesture of gratefulness, offering a word of Velusian thanks. “What do they call you?”   


He grunted in response and glanced around, a usual habit of those who knew Gunslingers well. He nodded to the trees nearby. “Bark.”   


Nicole blinked. “You want me to--”

“Just call me that.” He pulled a massive knife from his belt and began to sharpen it. 

Silence. Time passed. Nicole squinted at the sun and coughed.

“How long has it been?”

He shrugged. “Caught you last night.”

Nicole let out another sigh. She didn’t know how long she was in that demon pit. It could have been hours, or weeks.

“What do you--”

“How old are you?” the man interrupted. “You seem young, foolish.  _ Idiot.” _

Nicole had no dignity left to insult. “Two hundred and three.”

_ “Idiot.” _

Nicole let out another flat sigh. Had she had Will about her, maybe she could stop being the butt of so many damn jokes. Enough was enough, but exhaustion sank into her bones to remain there. No runes could push it back.

Nicole drank the water instead. She had her guns, at least. She let the silence hang for a few minutes, watching him sharpen his blade. Elder Humans could be thousands of years old. He could have been around for the World-Break and the Gunslinger’s Betrayal.

Speaking of which.

Nicole turned her eyes to the horizon. They were atop a wooded cliffside, overlooking the flat plains that ran toward the Ever-Turning Storm. It devoured the horizon and thundered blackness toward the pair, but they were safe at this distance. Lightning and wind whirled inside the dark storm, hiding all the mysteries within.

Rumors and legends spoke of the Ever-Turning Storm’s deadliness and power. To enter within was to surrender your soul to the Storm and none enough had lived to tell of what lay inside. Its origins were as mysterious - it had appeared during the World-Break, brought on by the Betrayal, and the legend held that the Velusians had summoned it to ravage the invading Atticans from Westerly and prevent them from founding Medania’s foothold.

Instead, it remained in place, consuming only that which came to it.

Oh, how Nicole longed for a cigarette.

“Tell me you’re not making me go in there,” Nicole said.

“I say go in there.”

Nicole set her head in her hands.

“Are you going to beg for mercy, Gunslinger?” Bark asked, setting his knife aside. “Ask me for the ritual, the magic, the runes, as if I hold secrets and wisdom as you must think all Velusians have?”   


“No,” Nicole said.

“Good.” Bark shrugged. “I got nothing. Go into the Storm.”

“Why?”   


“Why anything?” Bark set his head in a hand, leaning on one knee. “Why anything, _ idiot? _ I’m not Fate. I demand nothing. Just telling you to go into the Storm. Like an _ idiot, _ you will obey. You are suicidal and Godless.”

Nicole stood.

“My name is Nicole Haught,” she said firmly. “I am the last of the Gunslingers, a commander of ancient magic and within me lies the Law that should rule the West. I was chosen as a child and born into a weapon by a mentor who broke the world and brought a continent to its knees. I am a master of the revolver and rifle, a worshipper of Gods and the gun. I burn with the power to end demons and monsters, to protect the innocent and weak, and die with honor in a blaze of righteous glory.”

Nicole walked away.

“And I am not an _ idiot!” _ she called at last, looking over her shoulder.

With that, Nicole Haught descended the cliff and began to walk into the Storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters hit patreon first if you wanna follow me
> 
> twitter:
> 
> @sensitivepigeon


	4. Through the Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy

The garden was immaculate. Brilliant daisies swayed in the breeze that caught Nicole’s new duster and rustled her shirt. The ranch’s expanse had swallowed her Mentor and left her alone. She knelt, smelling the flowers, breathing in the scent, before a new one caught her nose.

“Admiring my flowers, Gunslinger?”   


Nicole looked up in awe. The sun crowned her like a halo, her sweet skin and flowing locks, her sly smile and delicate features that held a kind of daring, a bravery, that took Nicole’s breath away.

Nicole stammered some kind of apology, face red.

“I’m Shae,” she interrupted, striking forward her hand. Nicole caught it and shook it gently, but found a firm grip in response. “Local gardener and nurse here on the ranch. And you’re…”

“Nicole Haught.”

Shae looked down, batting eyelashes, smiling. “I’ve heard words about you, Nicole.”

“Good ones?”   


“ _ Great _ ones.”

Some sort of sly undertone lingered there, but Nicole hesitated to call on it, blinking as though it were some kind of mistake. Shae couldn’t be looking at her like  _ that,  _ saying things with  _ that  _ implication. 

But later, she had Shae against the wall of her cabin, her lips at the sweet skin of Shae’s throat, skirts hiked and long legs around Nicole’s waist as Shae pulled at her belt, breath coming fast and hot. 

Nicole cursed as Shae opened her belt and snaked a hand down her trousers. 

“Just promise you’ll see me again,” Shae whispered. “You’ll come back, Nicole, and make love to me again. You’re beautiful and my heart...”

“Yes,” Nicole said, and kissed her hard.

Her mentor never asked, and Nicole never told.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


The all-consuming, howling wind.

Dust flew. Nicole tied the bandana around her face and lowered her hat, urging Calamity forward. Not that she needed it. This was her home, her element, where she had been born. Nicole could barely hold her to a sane pace as she braced herself for the Ever-Turning Storm.

The raw, sparking power ravaged time and space, bringing together the past, present, and future in cracked, brilliant pieces that would reveal themselves along the edge of madness. It would be nothing so kind as the Sounding Desert, but the truth that lay within…Nicole needed it. It called to her, demanded her forth. 

And if it killed her, so be it.

The world went dark.

Waverly forced her steps to carry her into the whirlwind. It blustered against her, almost pulling her from her feet, and she wasn’t even within. 

The pure insanity of her journey came to her in bright detail. Ancient stories weren’t enough to capture the truth of the Storm, she realized. It was too big, too demanding. It would eat her alive and send her bones spinning for eternity.

But Coyote’s words sang in her head.

How foolish! She trusted the Trickster. It was too late to turn back, too late to change her mind. It had been hard enough to trek this far. The men would catch her if she turned aside her direction and tried to skirt the storm.

The past, present, and future.

_ There are things you will witness within that Storm that will shake you in your core. You will wish that the wind should have taken you and not revealed the truth to your mind. The insignificance of your existence compared to the Storm drives the proud man mad. _

Waverly pulled up the scrap of cloth that kept her breathing. She had long ago shoved Doc’s hat into her pack that barely clung to her. The wind pulled her hair, blinded her, and was the only sound.

One moment she was out of it, then she stepped within.

The world went dark.

Distant lightning illuminated the flat plain and jagged lines of the desert. Waverly pressed on, leaning forward against the Storm, daring to exist within its grasp. Each bolt of fury made her heart skip, falter, and begin again.

Ahead of her, movement of a shadowy form with red lines. Coyote. Waverly followed. Drawn by instinct, she drew the gun that Doc never used and held it firm in her hands, ready. If anything came, she would die fighting.

There was no need to fight.

The figure ahead changed, vanished, and Waverly felt tears born not of the dust, but of mourning, flow forth. Coyote had to leave, that was clear. Even Gods could not tread the Storm and survive.

Waverly almost fell to her knees. She stretched her hand forward, reaching. She would make it, she _ had _ to. Wynonna needed her.

Someone took her hand. Waverly felt a strong grip pull her forward into another world, another time, and her whole mind swayed into the grip of the scene. Flowing fields and the distant lowing of cows, the cluck of chickens. The taller figure before her, leading her on, smiling and listening to Waverly’s keen, explosive laughter, her wild joy. Willa wasn’t near, so she was unbridled, unleashed, and Mama would take her in to bake cookies.

Mama was here. She was safe, comforted, and they entered the homestead together and--

The dust and Storm returned. Waverly pressed on.

Shouting. The hidden shadows, the grip of the stairwell, hiding behind Wynonna as her parents raged. Too young to remember. Too young to comprehend.

_ “You should have told me the truth!” _

“And you? What of  _ yours?” _

“You can’t abandon her, you can’t abandon  _ us _ \--”

The thundering of a door slamming shut. 

It blended with a strike of nearby lightning, illuminating the Storm-Born creatures that lingered in the distance. Horses. Waverly headed to them, but they stayed out of reach, before vanishing from her sight.

Remember, remember.

There were parts to the Storm. A map drawn by a madman. The howling expanse dominated all, the flat plain with cracked floor from the strikes of powerful lightning. The hollow fields where the horses ran.

And _the_ _grave of the world._

It had coalesced with the beginning of the Storm. The Heart of it, the center, where the world itself ended and died.

Waverly took a step forward and felt the crunch of bone underfoot. She looked down, gasping, and saw what remained. No! She ought to have avoided it, to never have witnessed it, but somehow she must have been drawn to the center by the wind itself.

In hideous discovery, Waverly turned aside, but the truth had made itself known. She had to move. She had to put steps to her journey. To cross the Storm, she must pass the grave of the world.

Before her lay the last of some kind of battle. Gleaming armor and empty skeletons, far too large to be usual humans. Elder Humans? Velusians? Broad white banners and broken spears caught the lightning. Far too curious, Waverly stopped to inspect a dusty helmet within the Storm. No. Older.  _ Far older.  _ No Human had that skill of swirling metal work that bounded with light.

The word hovered at the edge of her mind, but she couldn’t dare think it. No.

Was this the past, or the future?

Waverly gripped her gun and pressed on. Creatures lay strewn about. Dark, hulking corpses of unknown origin, of hideous creation. They seeped into the dirt, some kind of black fluid that Waverly had to avoid stepping in.

In the distance, a mass of darkness rose. 

Waverly pulled up her gun as it came closer, standing her ground. It made itself known with gasping, tremendous bellows that brought to mind untold agonies. Quick, dark feet. Claws and teeth and wide eyes and darkness, consuming, feeding, echoing, and--

With sound and fury, Waverly pulled the trigger.

The creature exploded.

Light remained. Tall, beautiful, flowing light. Waverly stumbled forward, basking in it, reaching toward it. Something within her welled to the surface and expanded, impacting the air, halting the Storm within a small area as the creature before her spread its hundreds of wings and opened its eyes.

Song and silence. Waverly breathed in gold.

_ You are not to be here _ , it chimed within her mind, gentle as the breeze and loud as thunder. Waverly felt the urge to fall to her knees, but called what was within her to remain standing. No time, here, at the end of the world, to linger.

“What happened here?”

_ A great battle. _

“Who won?”

_ Whatever lingers in your world. Whatever is to become of it. What is, and what isn’t -- the beginning and the end -- the universe in balance or in chaos. It is unknown to me and my vigil here. _

“What are you?”

The golden color welled up within her. No response but the feeling of divinity itself. An Angel.

“How does the world end, then? Have you seen it?”

_ No. _

“Is this all that remains?”   


_ For now, for was, for when. _

Waverly began to realize she wouldn’t receive a clear answer. Never from a God, or a Divine. Never from Fate or Destiny. A fire raged within her. Frustration, fury. Despair and hope. Here at the end, or the beginning, or the was, the when, the now. 

“Can you help me escape here?”   


_ Here I remain, and my eyes are blinded. I am become Darkness, I am become Light. I am within and without. I have nothing for you, Waverly Earp. In essence, the answer is no. _

_ Now _ Waverly was mad. She gripped the handle of the gun, but didn’t bring it up to the Angel, only held it there within her hand until she felt sure it would crack. She ground her teeth and stood her ground. _ Fuck _ this bullshit.

“I’ll find my own way out!” Waverly shouted at the Angel. “I claim my own destiny! If you cannot help me, then you _ cannot  _ stop me! _ I have a very big gun and I am pissed off! _ ”

_ That’s nice. _

“Now get  _ out _ of my way!”

The creature shut its eyes, folded its wings, and vanished.

The Storm returned, but Waverly’s fury remained. She gripped the power within herself and turned into the wind, raging on ceaselessly against the pull of time. 

  
  
  


No Gods led Nicole Haught. 

Instead, she led herself through the whirlwind of dust and lightning, riding upon her Storm-Born steed, never pausing an instant as the crash of the waves of time became overwhelming. She ignored it all.

Nicole rode across the flat, golden plains with Shae at her back. She rode over the canyon paths, rifle ready, behind her Mentor as they ran down another outlaw. She rode as a child, still learning, with the harsh mistress of gravity teaching her lesson after lesson.

_ Get back on your horse!  _ Her Mentor shouted, hauling her back to her feet.  _ Get back on! _

Nicole rode on.

Time was an angry river. It lapped at her, pulling her and Calamity as they charged, trying to consume them into its riot of emotions and color. Nicole plunged recklessly onward.

“Show me!” Nicole roared at the howling storm. “Show me the truth, the reason, the backbone of Destiny!”

She drew Peacemaker.

_ “Or I’ll gun you down like the rest!” _

No one could doubt her resolve. As time swept everything away, only Nicole Haught remained. Burned, hardened, ageless. The titles, the trappings, the reputation -- none of it mattered. Her soul was laid bare in the violence of the wind.

No one answered her challenge.

Time opened, yawning wide, and Nicole shouted wordlessly as she ripped through it.

Color and sound. The Storm and the thunder of hooves overwhelmed her. Nicole glanced to her sides and found herself with her fellows, her comrades. The Gunslingers of Old, who rode the West and brought order from chaos.

Lightning tore through the Storm, striking nearby, but Calamity did not balk. The ghostly riders united in their strides behind her, shouting the old tongue, the old song, of a final ride into darkness.

Peacemaker turned blue, and Nicole gazed in awe, almost losing herself to surprise. Instead, she allowed the color to lead her onward. It drew her deeper within the grip of the whirlwind and further to the end of the world.

The Heart of the Storm.

Perhaps the Velusians won, in the end. The final Gunslinger had run directly to the end of the world to throw herself off the edge.

_ No. _

Nicole screamed as her runes returned, blazing across her skin, and her Will ignited within her heart. No. Her journey was not over. She was oath-bound. She would ride this Storm and come out the other end, find Waverly, and finish the quest.

No. This was not suicide.

This would be a redemption.

No Gods, no ghosts, no Destiny or Fate.

Only Nicole Haught.

In the distance, Nicole felt it. Strong iron. Ageless and firm. She reached toward it, leaning forward, allowing Peacemaker and her senses to lead her closer. Familiar and new. The Earp Will, the Earp Line, had not ended as she had thought. Wyatt had a family. Wyatt had an heir.

And somehow, she was here within the Storm.

Waverly Cactus -- no,  _ Waverly Earp  _ \-- was tearing her way through. She did not need Nicole’s lead. She was a woman who must have passed through the edge of the world, the Heart of the Storm, and survived. _ Who could say the same? _

The wind howled as they closed the distance.

Nicole reached out. The Will before her roared its independence and its fury, almost batting her aside like a toy. But the oath-bond carried through, and Waverly recognized her.

A hand struck hers.

Waverly leaped astride Calamity and they turned around, running along the lines of time and the Ever-Turning Storm, over the thundering plains back to safety and away from the end of the world.

In moments, as if they were never within, they were without. Time held its secrets from them and showed them nothing as the Storm spat them out of its grasp. The full moon shone down on the desert as Calamity huffed and panted. Even her seemingly endless reserve of stamina had run dry.

Calamity slowed to a walk, carrying her two riders close to the cliffs and to safety. They had been released to the north of the Storm, closer to the railroads, and between Cliffside and Purgatory. 

Finally, Calamity halted. She could go no further. Nicole dismounted first and offered Waverly aid, who ignored it. They both set down their supplies and packs before staring at each other.

Relief. Overwhelming relief.

Nicole held open her arms and Waverly came to her, shoving her down into the dirt and onto her ass. 

“I thought you left me!” Waverly shouted as Nicole came to her feet. “I thought you had abandoned me, Gunslinger! What _ happened _ to you?”   


Nicole’s head swam with images and the taste of demon whiskey.

“Things,” Nicole said, guarded. “Where is Doc Holliday?”

“Far from your gun, Gunslinger,” Waverly retorted. The Storm’s test had left her full of sound and fury, and Nicole allowed her to blaze. She would ember soon, but first she had to let out her anger. “Far from you and your  _ damned _ ways!”

Surprising the both of them, Waverly fell to her knees and began to weep. She did not yield her Will, and did not allow Nicole a step closer. Instead, she had created her own kind of mental storm. 

Nicole could relate. In the past, perhaps she had done the same. But here, now, she let Waverly ember and held her own Will back. The ordeal must have left her harrowed and wound tight. What had she even witnessed at the end of the world?

The storm abated, leaving Waverly alone in the dirt. Nicole finally took cautious steps forward, only for Waverly to relinquish her walls and allow her closer. 

Nicole knelt beside her, a soft hand at her back. 

“So you robbed him blind and escaped,” she said, a small smile blooming. 

Waverly sniffled. “Damn right.”

“I’ll light a fire.”   


A few runes and scraps of wood later, some kind of excuse for a fire sparked in a calm circle of brush. Nicole unpacked their scant supplies and sighed, thinking of their necessary trip into civilization to gather the funds and food for what was sure to be a lengthier journey than she had assumed.

Waverly moved herself onto her sleeping roll and stared into the fire.

“They were under some kind of spell,” Waverly said hollowly. Her foot pushed the dirt around as she chewed her words carefully. Nicole lit a cigarette and held it within wooden fingers, breathing in and calming herself.

“You sure?”   


“Coyote told me.”   


“Coyote says a lot,” Nicole said, skeptic. “Coyote’s wind almost drove us mad. Why believe what he says?”   


“He said he owed me.” Waverly shrugged. “Figured that Gods don't really just outright lie, right? There’s got to be some kind of rule. He put them to sleep and let me escape them.”

Nicole hummed and said nothing to that. She’d known plenty of divine lies, but if Waverly spoke the truth about her encounter, that was surely something. She’d never known the Gods to repay or ‘owe’ anything.

But Waverly was here in Doc’s oversized duster. 

Nicole pondered their situation.

“Waverly Earp,” Nicole said, rolling it around her tongue.

Waverly shot upright. “You know my name.”   


“Meaningless,” Nicole said, in between deep breaths of taback, and studied the stars. “I don’t know how to say it, how to own it. Your name still belongs to you, unlike mine.”

“Someone  _ owns _ your name?”   


“Multiple someones. You have to offer it yourself, say it yourself, so the Gunslinger learns the cadance, the rhythm, and pulls it within their Will and solidifies it into a sort of mental rune. It can be done by others, but it’s hard.” Nicole took another breath. “And what really gets the goat is that once you own someone’s name, you can give it away to someone else.”

“Could you teach me?”   


“Maybe.” Nicole cast her eyes to Waverly, expecting a kind of darkness to linger there, but found only burning curiosity. “Why would you want to know?”

“Just curious,” Waverly muttered. “I know I have it, now.”   


“Have what?”   


“Magic.” Waverly met Nicole’s gaze steadily. “ _ Will. _ I have it. I’m not mundane.”   


“Now who went and told you that?” Nicole asked darkly, kneeling. “That’s a dangerous thing to know.”

“I found it myself,” Waverly said, voice barbed. “I have Will and I’m not afraid to use it.”   


“You should be. Uncontrolled Will is what caused your faint in Cliffside.” Nicole sat fully, knowing this conversation would draw out longer than her knees could stand. She knew Waverly would be full of those damned questions again.

Instead, Waverly fell into her bedroll, head lolling, asleep in moments. Nicole waited for Waverly to fall deeper into sleep before moving closer, scrawling a simple rune nearby to capture any nightmares before moving to her own spot nearby.

Her familiar trotted out from the bushes and stretched in the fading light of the fire. Smug, it ignored Nicole completely and curled into itself beside Waverly.

“Stop that,” Nicole muttered, lightning another cigarette. “She  _ annoys _ me. We are not friends. You can’t betray me like this.”

Her familiar did not respond.

“I’ll take first watch, then,” Nicole said with a sigh.

  
  


* * *

Gunfire ringing in her ears, Nicole Haught stepped over a cooling body of a woman. She holstered her gun and wiped blood from her face. Two other women lay slumped in their chairs, eyes glazed over, seeing nothing forever.

Job done.

Footsteps halted behind her.

“What in the name of Gods!” screamed a man. _ “You killed them!” _

“Sure did,” Nicole said and lit up a cigarette. She turned slow, eyes lingering on his drawn gun. “What, exactly, are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll shoot!” he declared, raising his gun. _ “I swear I’ll do it!” _

Just a boy. Nicole lifted a finger and tilted the gun away from her. She sucked hard on her taback before pausing to inspect her own roll. Steady hands.

“Don’t swear what you won’t do, son,” Nicole rasped, “Get you in trouble someday.”

“I’ll kill you for this,” the boy said, voice shaking. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Nicole patted the boy on the shoulder before stepping around him. 

Out the door and into the night. More people awoke and rushed the insides of the house as Nicole mounted Calamity.

Nicole rode on, leaving screams behind.

* * *

Dawn split the desert, rolling over until all was alight with morning glory. The Ever-Turning Storm in the distance rumbled, full of retreating memories and old bones that could haunt a man for life. It was a miracle they had survived, a miracle to have found each other.

Nicole Haught didn’t believe in miracles.

She _ did  _ believe in breakfast. Fresh game roasted over the fire, sprinkled with old west goodness, served over hot baked beans. Coffee to wash it all down.

Waverly made a face.

“Eat up,” Nicole said, midway through her morning cigarette. “You’ll need your strength.”

“Why?” 

“If you stop asking questions, I’ll teach you a spell.” 

Waverly stuck out her tongue like an adult with adult priorities. Nicole rolled her eyes and stood, starting to pack away the horse. True to Nicole’s suspicions, Waverly did not ask her million-mile-an-hour questions and instead insisted on packing up her own stuff, much slower than if Nicole had helped.

“If you start _ answering _ questions, I’ll teach you  _ another  _ spell. Deal?” 

Waverly narrowed her eyes. “Deal.”

“What do you know about your father?” Nicole asked as she fixed saddlebags to Calamity.

“He was a drunk. Left when I was young.”

Nicole gave Waverly a harsh look, but she was being honest. Telling the truth. About Wyatt? A  _ drunk?  _ Not only that -- but _ abandoning  _ his family without ever being honest about where he’d come from.

Not that Nicole could judge, in her state of affairs. She shook her head clear and focused on the horse.

Horse.

_ Singular. _

Nicole blinked, taking a step back. Gods. Damnit.  _ Waverly didn’t have her own damn horse! _

“There’s only one horse,” Waverly said, appearing horrified. Immediately, Nicole decided to be nonchalant to annoy her further.

“So?” Nicole asked with a casual shrug. “We just ride double.”

Waverly gave her a long, withering look before she decided to act casual. “Fine.”

Nicole prepared to hop on, but Waverly spoke up again. “The spell, Gunslinger.”

“Fine.” Nicole rolled her eyes and strode a distance away, pointing to a rock. “Let me tell you something about Will, okay? Listen up.”

Waverly folded her arms.

“Will is dangerous,” she began, gesturing. “Without a spell, you can faint. Overdraw. A spell is a filter, a lens. It’s a word spoken, an intent collected, and an action completed all at once. Understand?”

“Yes,” Waverly lied.

“Let me show you.” Nicole pointed at the rock, focused a small portion of her Will, and spoke the word.  _ “Move.” _

It nudged over.

“See, now you --”

_ “Move.” _

The rock hit Nicole’s chest and bounced off. She sighed.

“This is too easy, Gunslinger!” Waverly aggressed. “Teach me something  _ harder. _ ”

“A move spell ain’t easy when you get to larger things, Earp. For example, if you moved me, you’d have a great deal of trouble because I have Will too, and I’d raise it --”

Wrong thing to say. Waverly’s eyes flashed at the challenge. _ “Move.” _

Nicole flew backward and hit the ground  _ hard, _ wind knocked from her lungs. She stared up at the blazing sun and a sigh ignited from her belly. Had Waverly been put on this wretched planet to make her suffer, too? She rubbed at her eyes.

“Sorry!” Waverly lied. “Sorry. I’ll help you up.”

Nicole raised her Will. “No, don’t you dare try to --”

_ “Move.” _

This time, Waverly’s spell was off-kilter. She didn’t want to  _ Move _ Nicole. She wanted to  _ Grab _ her first, rip her upward, and stand her on her own two feet. The complex notion of the spell fell apart in the first instant of expelled Will. Instead of doing anything remotely helpful, she had drawn forth her Will to embrace Nicole’s.

Nicole felt Waverly’s raw Will wrap around her and tightened her own, but it was too late.

Passion. Fury. Incomprehensible rage, undeniable want, truth beyond truth. Waverly’s Will was untamed, and  _ never _ would be. It was too strong, too bold…

_ “I claim my own destiny!” _

The words were Waverly’s, but Nicole mouthed them, feeling them in her soul.

Beating. A drum? No. Her heart, in time. Matching another. Matching…

_ Waverly’s? _

The Oath-Bond, certainly. Nothing else. Nothing to do with the way their Wills collided like puzzle pieces into a singular painting full of color and sound. 

Nicole snapped her Will and ended the connection before it could get too complicated. She lay there, panting, before lifting her head. Waverly braced against a rock, her hand on her heart, not looking at Nicole, trying to catch her own breath.

Nicole stood. 

“Well.” Nicole coughed awkwardly, adjusting her hat. She had no idea what Waverly had seen, but it probably wasn’t good. Nicole’s Will was slathered with long streaks of colorless grey until some parts of it were turning on black.

“Gunslinger,” Waverly said evenly, as if nothing had happened.

Nicole cleared her throat and the tension. “Let’s move on to lesson two.”

Waverly nodded a bit too eagerly, shifting to look at Nicole once more with untamed enthusiasm.

“Now, we’re gonna learn about some other spell called  _ Stop --” _

“No,” Waverly said, moving from her rock to Calamity. She pulled out a gleaming gun that made the blood freeze in Nicole’s veins. “You’ll teach me to shoot like a Gunslinger.”

The light itself did not reflect. It was absorbed, expelled, and the runes would ignite with a singular pulse of Will. 

_ Warbringer. _

“How do you have Warbringer? _ ”  _ Nicole demanded, striding over and stopping herself a moment before ripping it from Waverly’s grip. 

“What?” Waverly said, identifying Nicole’s want and cradling it before Nicole could get it.  _ “Warbringer?” _

“That belongs to  _ me _ ,” Nicole growled, reaching.

“Fine, have it.” 

Waverly offered it and one touch seared Nicole straight through. She stumbled back from the gun in astonishment, waving her good arm. Warbringer had rejected her. Nicole narrowed her eyes, assessing the situation, before relenting. It was in the hands of an Earp, now. She fingered Peacemaker, just in case, but it didn’t burn her the same.

“What was that?”

“No spell for you,” Nicole muttered. 

A distant train horn. Nicole’s spine locked into place and she glanced North. She saw the path they had to take. Gunfire and blood. They would head East, find the trail from where Nicole had left it. To find Wynonna, they would have to find…

Nicole grit her teeth. 

“Gunslinger?”

“Come on,” Nicole said, striding over and mounting Calamity in one smooth motion. She offered a hand. “Let’s go.”

Waverly dug in her heels in that familiar way that Nicole  _ swore  _ would put her in her Gunslinger grave. 

“Not until you tell me where we’re going.”

“East, Medania.” Nicole jerked her head. “Come on. The train --”

“Why are we headed East?” Waverly shook her head. “Is that where my sister is?”   


“If you want to find your sister, you’ll get on this horse,” Nicole said, patience at its end. Waverly relented and mounted astride Calamity. Nicole gripped her hips and forced them together, making Waverly yelp and blush. Whatever.

Nicole squeezed her legs and Calamity leapt forward, sending Waverly full into Nicole’s front. She sputtered past brown hair.

This would be a long ride.

  
  
  
  
  


It wasn’t, actually.

The small town appeared over the horizon in under a breathless hour of hard riding. The train blew its horn, bellowing smoke from its position on the platform outside of town. Nicole slowed to a brisk trot as they approached.

Nicole slid the reins in her hand and gave the smallest tug. Calamity snorted and turned, hiding behind the shadow of an overturned wagon. From there, no one from the road or platform would spot what they would do next.

“Why are we stopping?” Waverly asked on perfect cue.   


Nicole dismounted, offering a hand that Waverly promptly ignored. 

“Disguises,” Nicole said. Waverly’s eyes lit up like holiday sparklers. 

“Oo! Can I be Sheriff?” Waverly batted her lashes as if that would do anything to Nicole. She offered rolled eyes in return before pulling out a soapstone and turning Waverly around to face Calamity. “Wait. What are you --”

Nicole tore through the back of her riding dress, ripping her underclothes as she did so. Waverly’s bare back greeted Nicole and she blinked.

_ That’s nice _ , Nicole thought before flattening her hand against smooth skin. She leaned in with the soapstone, ignored whatever was going on in her head, and drew the disguise rune as gooseflesh pebbled beneath her fingertips. It ignited once before sinking in.

Waverly turned with fire in her mouth, drawing a deep breath to scorch Nicole from the very earth they stood upon before Nicole gestured for her to look down.

“I hate you, Gunslinger,” Waverly said as she folded her arms underneath an accentuated bosom. Her Medanian dress almost seemed to glow under the sun. Green and gold overlaid her body, hugging her curves, before flaring into a billowing skirt. Brown hair lifted into an Eastern bun, mirroring styles from Attica itself, and makeup shining in the light did little to hide the fury beneath.

Nicole leaned in, transforming into something akin to clean. Sharp lines, sharp vest, sharp suit. Straight black trousers and fine boots. The Gunslinger had vanished behind the fine disguise of a Baron’s man.

“I need you to _ act  _ like it.”

“How would we ride on one horse --”

“No horse.” Nicole waved and Calamity led a carriage fit for Waverly’s kind. “Get in.”

“What?” Waverly asked, completely astounded by the outright display of magic. “You said no words!”

“Rune magic is different,” Nicole said, opening the carriage door. It shimmered slightly as if trying to deny its own reality. “Need your help, Waverly. Use your Will and power the carriage. Just think of it.”

“Uh.” Waverly took a step forward and placed her hand against it. _ “Carriage.” _   


It snapped into reality.

“Good.” Nicole jerked her head. “In.”

Waverly gave her a death glare before boarding the carriage. Nicole hopped up into the driver’s seat and clicked her tongue. Calamity, now a mundane, moved forward at a steady pace.

“Your name is Georgia,” Nicole called. “Mine is Sal. Don’t talk to anybody, make no eye contact, fan yourself delicately and keep Warbringer close. It’s in your boot.”

“I’m a Duchess, I just decided,” Waverly replied. “I own fifty horses.”

Nicole rolled her eyes again, a permanent state of being.

The train whistled again as Nicole pulled up beside the platform. She gestured for assistance and men came out of the woodwork at the sight of Waverly Earp. 

Waverly, for her part, did her work majestically. She accepted a hand from one of the men and a delicate blush colored her face, along with an enchanting smile. 

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Can you get my luggage?”   


Nicole winced and created luggage before anyone could notice the lack of it. She dropped from the driver’s seat and signaled one of the men to help her, but they were all caught up in Waverly’s circle, in Waverly’s presence.

An eager man grabbed all the luggage at once, stumbling back to Waverly. His eyes shone with adoration.

Nicole cleared her throat.

“Don’t mind Sal,” Waverly said, tittering and fanning herself with one of those Attican fans. “Just my working man. Would you be a dear and settle my horse aboard the train?”

“Just so, your Grace!” one man spoke.

They jostled over who would get to lead Calamity. Nicole glared and almost allowed Calamity to begin taking fingers before she stepped over and took the reins before anyone else could. She led Calamity around the back of the platform and had her vanish into the wind, out of sight.

Returning, more men crowded Waverly’s space.

“Miss Georgia,” Nicole called between grit teeth. “The  _ train.” _   


“Coming, Sal.” Waverly parted slow, a dozen kisses landing on the back of her hand as she did so. They gazed in awe as she walked and almost fell on their knees to worship the ground.

Nicole folded her arms as Waverly finally approached her. She raised an eyebrow, head tilted, frustration barely restrained.

Waverly gave her a maddeningly stubborn look before turning to the Trainmaster.

“Papers?”

“I’m Duchess Georgia,” Waverly said. “And I own _ fifty _ horses.”

Nicole stepped forward and produced an empty hand. One flick of her will and a small rune gesture had the man nodding before he could question Waverly’s statement.

“All aboard!” he called.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment/kudos if you'd like me to continue this story im not sure if i can muster the motivation atm, but ill try if you want
> 
> also i am in an extremely hard spot atm, if you enjoy my writing now or in the past, please consider supporting me on patreon or ko-fi, it's the pinned tweet on my twitter has the links
> 
> [@Sensitivepigeon](https://twitter.com/sensitivepigeon/)   
>  [sensitive-pigeon.tumblr.com](https://sensitive-pigeon.tumblr.com/)


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